


For Blue Skies

by ayoungvein



Category: All Time Low, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 112,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayoungvein/pseuds/ayoungvein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started on a Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy with the Broken Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my new college bandom au. You'll find out more and more about the characters as the chapters progress. I can't be giving everything out. This is chapter one, but it's basically just a prologue....
> 
> I don't own any of the characters. Just the plot. I swear.

 

 

 

I.

It all started on a Tuesday.

  
It was a most ordinary Tuesday, too, with a clear blue sky and lazy clouds rolling through the azure. A syrupy sunrise painted the horizon with deep oranges and burnt reds and cotton pinks that inked downwards as though the sky were crashing to the ground and melting in an explosion of colors that masked the sun’s deafening rays.

And in the middle, she stood with a handful of pills and a gun to her temple.

It was just an ordinary Tuesday, after all.

 

#### Sunday

 

II.

Frank Iero woke up with a voracious hangover, what with a palpitating headache and a dizzying sense of nausea in the back of his desiccated throat. Groping around blindly, he managed to find the emergency bottle of aspirin in his nightstand drawer. The bottle was nearly empty, and he shook the remaining pills into the palm of his hand and swallowed them dry.

He groaned again, pitifully, and slammed his eyes shut in wake of the incandescent lighting that hung above him and blared down brighter than the sun, itself, which was attempting to seep in through the heavy blinds Frank had taken to hanging up once the hangovers had proved too much for him in the mornings.

The sound from his mouth escaped into the adjacent room, echoing faintly as though it were the vestige of ghost.

“You need to stop getting drunk every Saturday night,” a voice told him from threshold.

Blinking and rubbing his sore eyes, the hazel of them glazed over with a deep pink and rimmed with even deeper rings around them, Frank looked over blearily to the tall and blonde silhouette of his roommate, Bob Bryar, standing akimbo and shaking his head judgmentally.

“She dumped your ass, Frankie, it’s time to move on. Wallowing in your own filth isn’t going to help,” he said as politely and carefully as he could without losing his air of authority that seemed to permeate the air around him.

“Shut the fuck up, Bob,” Frank growled, nearly heaving at the coarse feeling of his voice leaving his throat. At the way it came out garbled like pins-and-needles had been poking his windpipes through the night.

The older man shrugged. “Frank, I’m giving it to you straight. She left you, and odds are, she’s not coming back. Not for this Frank, anyways. I dealt with your partying ass as a freshman and as a sophomore. You’re a senior now, Frank, and it’s time to grow up.”

“She kicked my heart in the ass,” Frank choked into his pillow, not from tears or crying or weakness, but because his hangover physically would not let words escape his mouth enunciated. Rather, anything he managed to spew out had to be choked in a misconstrued manner or he would be forced to remain silent, heaving into the toilet, something he preferred not to do if he could avoid the faux pas.

“I’m not babying you anymore, Frank. I’m not your mother.”

“Sometimes, I wish you were.”

“Why? Oedipus complex you got there?”

“Only for you, Bobby-boy.”

“Get up, Frank. You have class this afternoon.” Bob threw an old shirt at him fresh from the laundry. “And clean this place up, you fucking slob.”

Frank rolled his eyes and let a chuckle roll under his breath, as well. “Love you, too, Bob.”

Bob didn’t respond, but the clanging of pots from the kitchen and the sound of the stove sizzling against what smelled like bacon was music enough for Frank’s ears. Rustling the crisp sheets on his bed, Frank struggled out of it and worked on getting dressed.

He had been living with Bob Bryar for four years of his time at Cooperstown University, when they had met in the small campus dorms as strangers, both psychology majors, though. And thanks to a lot of late-night parties and even later-night study sessions, Frank and Bob had made a connection. They started doing coffee runs together, crashing on the floor together in the middle of study sessions, and Bob even managed to get Frank a job at his parent’s pet store with him somewhere down on Thames Street, in the epicenter of bustling city life.

It had taken them a year or two of saving up money at the pet store before the two had enough to move out of the cramped space and into a diminutive flat on Freemont Street, merely a walk away from the college’s main campus, two streets down.

Finally, with all the right articles of clothing on the right parts of his body (after Frank had been trying to squeeze a sock over his head for ten minutes, lost in his own wistful thoughts), he called out to Bob, “I think I’m going to visit her today. Before class.”

“Frank,” Bob yelled back warningly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But Frank ignored him, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder before stealing a piece of bacon from the frying pan, letting the piece of meet dangle from his mouth as he chewed it thoughtfully. Finally, he slapped his roommate playfully on the cheek and said through a mouthful of breakfast. “Never said it was a good idea, Bobby, but maybe I just want a cup of coffee.”

 

III.

 

Evertree Crescent laid two streets away from Frank and Bob’s apartment on Freemont Street, where a sliver moon of refurnished condos laid on that brisk Sunday morning. The cool breeze whispered against the darkened glass and against the railings on the verandas, while the sun bathed the wealthy street in a playful morning sun, a tangerine sky and yellow beams of light settling against the vinyl buildings.

A muffled voice mumbled into his pillow and a body moved on the bed in the topmost floor of the condo. Room #123B. Gabriel Saporta. Wealthy son of a business man. More renowned on the Cooperstown University campus as the school’s billionaire playboy. Today, though, he woke up alone. Alone. Hung over. And with a screeching headache that would not agree with the blaring television in the next door room.

Gabe meant to scream at his roommate to, “ _Turn that fucking shit off_ ,” but his teeth were fuzzy and his throat burnt out from all the whiskey the night before. He groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his caramel eyes and praying for some tranquility that morning.

It was not as though Gabe Saporta was entirely unfamiliar with the hangover experience. The headaches. The memory loss. The recollection of last night through embarrassing text messages and on-campus scandals about hook-ups he’ll never see again. No, Gabe had been a pro at that game, actually. He had four years to master it in all his time at college. What else was a wealthy boy supposed to do? Especially a wealthy boy who’s father didn’t want him and had shipped him to boarding schools across the states for the better half of his life just to be rid of him for months on end.

Trying to rub a migraine from his eye, Gabe struggled out of his bed, staring around at the mess of his bachelor’s pad: a pyramid of empty beer cans and a rank stench to accompany them; one or two bras strewn across the plush carpet from girls he didn’t remember, no doubt with their numbers written somewhere between the lace; beer and bong water stains on the same rich, expensive carpet his father paid for; and, from the looks of it, vomit.

The Spanish boy ran a hand through his dark locks sullenly, shaking his head at the mess. He felt too old for this shit.

It had been the same routine for his two weeks back at Cooperstown University. Go to class. Go to the gym. Shower. And end the night in gallons of booze guzzled down his throat and tongues to accompany it, all from girls and boys he would hardly be able to recall once the morning light hit. And slowly, party after party was wearing the boy down, for he looked older than his twenty-four-year-old self was.

Nonetheless, he grabbed his books for class and sent a text to his roommate, telling him to clean the mess up in a not-so-polite way and checked himself in the mirror. After all, even sons of wealthy businessmen have to keep up appearances, right? Playboy. Smartass. Narcissist. Alcoholic. Or that was at least how Gabe has heard the stories go…. He was never one for keeping up with the tabloids.

With one last scan of the disaster room, he turned on his heel, already texting out invites to the next party tomorrow night.

 

IV.

 

“What’s today?”

“Sunday.”

“No. The date, you ass.”

“Well, with that attitude, I shouldn’t have even told you the day of the week.”

“You sure do have a smartass mouth.”

“I hear that’s my best feature.”

“From who?”

“You.”

“Haha,” Ryan Ross croaked, half-heartedly into the empty room of the rundown campus dorm. He was standing in the midst of the living room, barefooted and rubbing the leftovers of sleep out of his eyes after a long night of pen against paper, trying to write the latest extraordinaire essay for his lit class. “What’s the date, Beckett?”

“The 23rd of September. Why?”

“Paper,” he muttered, falling onto the nearby overstuffed second-hand armchair. It swallowed him whole, but he ignored it, settling into the warmth between the cigarette burns that turned the chair pale and pallid with its Monet of ashes.

William eyed him sympathetically before standing up and, courteously, pouring his roommate a cup of coffee. Absently, Ryan thanked him for it and sipped at it daintily. William watched through a hidden smile, trying not to laugh at the girlish way Ryan sipped his drinks.

“What’s so funny, Beckett?”

“Ry, we’ve been roommates for three years. Why won’t you call me William?”

“People might assume things.”

“People assume things, anyways.”

“Do they really?” Ryan put his mug down, staring William down through his coffee brown eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“Last I heard, you were my European exchange roommate. Real beach body. Luscious locks. We have sex on the beach every night.”

Ryan glared at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Oh no,” William giggled through his own cup of coffee, making a face at the lack of sugar they have in the place, “I’d be much too frightened to tease an over-stressed lit major.”

“You’re a lit major, too, ass.”

“Yes, but I’m comfortable with my sexuality.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I am, too.”

William abandoned the horrible coffee to lean forward on the couch and stare more closely at Ryan. His tousled hair. The deep rings around his eyes. The pallor to his face and gauntness to his cheeks. The only explanation for it being…, “What would Brendon say to that?”

“Touchy subject, Beckett,” Ryan warned through a mouth of hot liquid. “It’s over.”

“He called last night, you know.” William brushed his dark hair from his face, the strands splaying haphazardly down his cheekbones and tickling his jaw. “He was asking about you.”

“Last I heard,” Ryan mumbled to his mug, “he wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, he doesn’t.”

“So why’d he call.”

William shrugged. “I’m gay, Ross, not a mind-reader.”

“So the 23rd?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” And Ryan stood up to disappear back to his room. Minutes later, the computer keys started clacking, and William stood up with a sigh.

 

V.

 

Not far from the dormitory of literature majors, was another street of dorms, only a trolley ride to the university (like all junior dorms the campus provided were). These two streets of dormitories were part of a new investment of land in Cooperstown called the Calderstones. These were low-income housing dormitories that often held partying addicts and was often a cesspool of disease. After redistricting from the sister city of Monroeville, Cooperstown had been stuck with the problem of these two streets and had done its best to refurnish most of them into dormitories. However, there was public housing still available, towering apartment buildings and terraced houses full of run-down, low-income occupants.

In a dilapidated building on Verdala Park, he sat in the middle of the room with a razor to his wrists.

He liked the feeling of running the blade down his arms, down the course of his bluish veins that begged to be kissed with the feeling of ecstasy. He liked to watch the mutilation of his arm, the way it morphed to shapes and cuts and designs at his will. The way the blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the carpet like a failed van Gogh painting.

A knock at his bedroom door made him jump, and the blade sliced deeper into his arm. “What?”

“Vic, the shuttle bus to the university leaves in fifteen minutes” his brother, Mike, said on the other side of the door.

Vic was thankful Mike didn’t try to force his way into the room (the lock had broken on his door years ago, and they had no money to fix it). It made it easier to dab at the small pool of blood with a napkin and throw it away. He tugged down the sleeve of his hoodie, hid the blade in a hollowed out book (an old copy of _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ that had fallen apart), and grabbed his school bag full of textbooks for his music major and creative writing minor.

“Don’t miss that bus!” Mike called again. “Gas it too expensive.”

The family owned a single car, between the three of them, though their mother had lost her license a couple years ago for driving under the influence. It was a beat-up Honda Civic that was nearing the last of its life and had several things wrong with it (surely it wouldn’t pass the next inspection, Vic thought to himself). He hated being poor. He hated Verdala Park. He hated living in the Calderstones.

“See you after class.” His brother tousled his head as Vic shoved a hat on top of the long strands and exited the house. Already, he felt the stinging of the drying up cuts in the breezy wind of the California city. And already, he began fingering the second blade inside his pocket, wondering when he would next get a moment of sweet reprieve.

 

VI.

 

The coffee shop smelled like mocha and vanilla bean, a warm and inviting scent as the tinkling bell rang for each new customer. The scents swarmed around and enveloped him as he entered the campus shop. It was a Sunday morning, so it was still mildly empty. The wooden floors smacked under Frank’s shoes, and he scanned the counter for a familiar barista.  
He spotted her instantly. It was hard not to. Black hair tied up in a messy, bun. Lips puckered in concentration as she fashioned the frappucinos. Thin brows on her thin face. A smile tugging at her features to show her white, crooked teeth and dimples as a coworker whispered a joke in her ear. Frank smiled at her when she looked up, and he waved.

She frowned in return as he sauntered up to the counter. “Frank?”

“Jamia, hey.” He finished the space to the counter in three long strides. “I wanted to talk.”

“Frank, I’m working,” she said laconically.

“It’ll just be a second,” he begged.

“I’m working,” she repeated, a bit harsher this time. The russet in her eyes was sharp and bitter, almost foreign, and Frank would cower if he weren’t so desperate just to hear her melodic voice say his name one last time.

“Jamia, just listen to me, okay? I’m sorry over whatever I did. We can fix this, though. We can’t just throw five years away. I’ve been a wreck without you.”

“There. That.” Jamia explained, slamming down the mixture of a vanilla bean frappuucino in exasperation. It sputtered to the counter in thick white splats. “That’s why we broke up, Frank. We’ve been together five years, and we don’t know who we are apart from this relationship.”

“Why can’t _we_ just be we? Why do _we_ have to be a you and me?”

“Because, Frank, I don’t know who I am with you, anymore.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being a realist, Frank,” she sighed, a strand of her bangs blowing with her breath. Frank can smell the barely-there hint of mint toothpaste, and he nearly sighed, himself, forgetting how much he had missed the flavor of her. “I love you. I do--”

“Isn’t that enough, though?” he supplicated, trying to catch her eyes.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, staring down at his hands. Frank closed his eyes and remembered the warmth of them. Remembered the familiarity of them intertwined with his. They fit like an old shoe. “But, sometimes, it’s not.”

“I love you, Jamia,” he whispered back.

“I know, Frankie.” She said his name like an apology. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing this for me.”

He shook his head in disbelief, as though he were losing his last thread of connection with her. “I can give you space?”

“Frank, I love you. I just--”

“Don’t love me enough,” he finished for her sadly.

This time, she tried to catch his eyes; but he refused to notice as he dug in his pocket for three twenty-five and handed her the money.

She dispensed him his usual, her last words following him out of the coffee shop with the tinkling bell, “Tall frappucino. Mocha, no whipped cream.”

 

VII.

 

Alex Gaskarth had spent Saturday and Sunday morning on the floor of his best friend’s bedroom. Already, he had a bad back from the thin carpeting that covered the expanse of the room, and the bulky pillow had done wretched wonders on his neck. Nonetheless, he was thankful towards his friend, Jack, who had offered him a home after the horrible disaster that had taken place at Alex’s house that morning.

It had been a fight with his brother, Tom, that lasted long into the night. It had been over another of Tom’s petty shirts that Alex had borrowed to wear that day. This one had been a New Found Glory one, and it had been Tom’s favorite. To say the least, the fighting had caused Alex to slam the screen door to the front porch on his brother’s screaming face. He hadn’t even bothered to tear the shirt off his body, and instead walked to Jack’s with the New Found Glory shirt still clinging to his body.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack walked into the room with two plates of mildly burnt waffles in his hands. He set one down in front of Alex, and the older boy began eating them regardless of the black scorched marks from the toaster oven on them. He was already too familiar with Jack’s cooking to care.

“Shitty,” Alex said.

“You can stay as long as you like,” Jack replied through a mouth of his own waffles. “You know Mom adores you. I think she’d adopt you if she could.”

Alex laughed. “I think I’d prefer that.”

“Oh, please.” Jack shoved at his friend playfully. “You’re being a drama queen. I think you’re more distraught over this New Found Glory shirt than you were when Lisa left you.”

“Lisa was a bitch,” Alex laughed, and Jack agreed. “Besides, your siblings are cooler than mine.”

“Leeyh and Joe are easy to get along with, and May’s moved back to Baltimore for years,” he said aridly. “Besides, Tom’s got a good taste in music.”

Alex hummed in acquiescence, but he didn’t care. That hardly made up for the fighting and shouting the other day. “Can I stay one more night?”

“Yeah.” Jack slurped syrup that had dribbled down his chin. “Might as well. All your stuff is here.”

Alex nodded, but he couldn’t shake the daunting feeling that he needed to go home.

 

#### Monday

 

VIII.

 

“Gabe, I’m going to Ryan’s place tonight. I won’t be here for the party. You’ll have to clean up yourself, you lazy fucker,” Pete Wentz told his roommate, Monday afternoon, as the preparations for the party are in place.

Gabe was busy putting the beer in the fridge when Pete told him this. “You mean Ryan Ross? The gay kid?”

“He’s not gay, Gabe. That was a rumor.”

“But wasn’t he with that Urie kid?”

“No.”

“Oh. Those two should fuck, anyways.”

“You think everyone should fuck.”

“Makes the world a better place,” Gabe laughed, staring over at his roommate who was standing in the threshold of the bathroom, straightening his ebony hair in deep concentration. His eyes were already coated in thick black eyeliner, and his jeans were tight enough to denote any leftover manhood the college senior had possessed.

“Don’t catch any diseases while I’m away.”

“Would never dream of it, dear,” Gabe replied.

He and Pete, they had this sort of domestic relationship. Neither of them are gay, though Pete’s attested to being gay above the waist. But, nonetheless, Gabe and Pete just looked after each other. It was comfortable, this thing they had. Pete kept Gabe from tarnishing his father’s reputation too much and from tipping the border to full-blown alcoholic. And Gabe kept Pete from having mental breakdowns when he forgot to take his medication. It was the closest either had to salvation.

“I mean it, Gabe. I’m not taking care of your whining ass when you get syphilis.”

“Don’t you think syphilis is a bit outdated, old man?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

“Exactly.”

“Always take the fun out of things,” Gabe pouted.

“And no more drunken texts,” Pete said, wrapping the cord to his flat iron up and putting it away. He surveyed his makeup one last time in the mirror before deeming it appropriate. “I’m sick of hearing the weird things you call your dick in the bedroom.”

“Oh, Papi,” Gabe says in return, his Latino accent rolling off his tongue, batting his eyes at Pete in a mocking, yet flirty, fashion.

“Goodbye, Gabe.”

“Goodbye, Pete.”

 

IX.

 

Greta Salpeter was a lovely girl. That was how the words surrounding her reputation on campus go, anyways. Anyone would tell you she was outgoing and polite and kind and she’d help a person with anything (even if it was a freshman). Actually, Greta’s life could be described as picturesque. The ideal family of four with a hard-working father, a doting mother, and a brother who kept in touch and visited on holidays.

On a Monday afternoon, she crossed the campus courtyard, in a pale blue dress that matched the color of her eyes and the red color of her stockings that matched the red on her lips, to take her usual seat at one of the benches, Starbucks in one hand and laptop in the other. She waited for her usual friend to take a seat beside her. Her blonde hair blew in the wind in an ethereal fashion, as though she could fly away or disappear completely.

It was a nice day out, as it usually would be in September. The wind was brisk and chilly as autumn properly rolled in. The leaves around her changedcolor: vivid scarlets, sienna browns, burnt oranges and yellows as golden as her hair. She brushed a strand behind her ear, on that note, and typed her latest paper for her music class. Still waiting… and waiting… and waiting….  
Finally, he showed up. He slid onto the bench beside her and threw an arm around her shoulders, all toothy smile and wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

“Bren, why are you always late?” she laughed, softly, melodic like any other noise she makes with her rose petal lips.

“Why are you always early?” he countered, playfully, nudging her lightly and leaning over to read her essay. “ _Music is more than just noise._ Well, who would’ve thought?”

“Shut up, you!” She punched him, roguishly, in return. And he laughed, a high, lyrical note that madae Greta fall in love with him all over again.

“I broke up with Thomas,” she told him.

“Is he okay with everything?”

“Yeah. He likes girls. I like girls. Everyone likes girls… but you,” she teased.

He nudged her before letting his head fall onto her shoulder, comfortably. “You’re lovely, Greta, you know that? Taking care of me in my time of need.”

“Stop wallowing.”

“I’m not wallowing!”

“You’re pining.”

“I’m not pining!”

“Then stop angsting,” she ordered, “especially over Ryan Ross.”

Brendon Urie was always known for doing stupid things. For being impulsive and brash and never thinking things through when he turned in tests and essays (never double-checking them for errors and mistakes, either). However, out of all the stupid things Brendon Urie could have done, he had to do the stupidest of them all: fall in love with Ryan Ross.

“You can’t help who you fall in love with, Gret, you know that?”

And she did. She really did.

 

X.

 

“Why doesn’t she love me?”

“She loves you, Frank. Shut up.”

“Come get drunk with me, Bob.”

“No.”

“Come pity me, Bob.”

“No.”

“Do something!”

Bob Bryar made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat before he strode over to his short roommate and gave him a good slap in the face.

“What was that for?!” Frank reeled back, shocked. He was now holding the stinging flesh that was slowly reddening, and his eyes had watered a bit from the sudden onslaught of pain for that brief second.

“For being an idiot!” Bob barked. “For falling in love and not knowing how to fall out of it. For fuck’s sake, Frank, you’re a senior. There’s more going on here than your love life.”

“…thank you.”

Bob noded, and the two of them sit back down on the green sofa that didn’t match the yellow area rug or the black coffee table in their mismatched apartment. The television screen blared another rerun of _Conan_ , and neither of them cared enough to actually concentrate on it.

“Bob?”

“Frank, if you ask me to get drunk one more time, I will punch you to sleep….”

“You can stop the macho man act around me, you know? I’ve seen you in your parents’ pet shop. You’re a fucking softie for those dogs.”

“So are you.”

Frank shrugged. “I’m a loveable man.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Bob. You’re quite the cuddler. Especially when you’re drunk and--”

“We don’t talk about that,” Bob said sharply.

Frank giggled.

No, they don’t talk about that.

So they talk about Jamia.

He remembered everything about her. But something he could hardly remember was where it all went wrong. He had sat through class today, distracted, and thinking of any warning signs he could have missed along the way. The only thing his mind kept reverting back to was their holiday away in Italy. Though that had been full of nothing but love and kisses and hope for the fresh start of his senior year.

(They laid tangled up in each other for what felt like an eternity, listening to the crash of the Mediterranean against the Italian coast. He tightened his grip around her, rubbing fingers on the soft expanse of skin across her stomach. Kissing her shoulder, he whispered into the serene hotel room, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Frankie.” He heard the smile in her voice.

“I love you more,” he told her, continuing to dot kisses across her shoulders. Onto her neck. Up her jaw line. The corner of her mouth.

She giggled beneath his lips, “Don’t get corny on me, Iero. I might have to find a man who can fulfill my needs if that happens.”

“Jamia, I’m being serious.” He rolled them over and stared into her eyes. The rich hazel of his meeting the hazel of hers until they’re nearly locked onto each other. Melting into each other’s gaze. Trying so hard to stop being two separate beings and just become one single entity with each other.

“I know, Frankie,” she whispered, not daring to break this moment with too much noise as she placed her hands on either side of his cheeks and leaned up to kiss the feeling onto his lips. To kiss words into his mouth that imbue more than oxygen, itself. “I love you, too.” )

 

XI.

 

The noise was deafening. With the stereo wailing throughout the condo, Gabe’s bachelor pad had never been more alive. There was body shots all around, girls running around half-naked, and more than enough beer. And Gabe had never had a better time.

He was drunk, though. He was always drunk these days. A little remedy to the hell inside his head. Self-medicating, rehabs would call it. Surviving, Gabe called it.

“Need another drink?” A voice asked behind him.

He shrugged. Why not? “Sure. The more, the merrier.”

The stranger laughed. He was a handsome man, too. Sharp features. Chestnut hair. Muscular build. The kind Gabe would have a threesome with. Or a twosome with. He was not picky, these days. It’s no secret the playboy of campus had no sexual preference. Not really, anyways.

“Here.” The stranger handed him whiskey.

“A man after my own heart,” Gabe cooed, throwing an arm around him and laughing raucously.

Beside him, the devil smiled.


	2. Caraphernelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Brendon had never been sure what the phrase ‘heartbreak’ ever really meant. He’s not sure if a heart really does break or if it’s an imagined feeling, a desperate metaphor, to convey some sort of broken feeling. But, in that moment, staring at Ryan, in that grassy field, Brendon swore he could hear the sounds of his heart breaking.)

I.

  
  
It was three in the morning. And William Beckett meandered along the California Coast, just south of Evertree Crescent. It was something he liked to do in the middle of the night, when the stress of the day gnawed and nibbled at his anxiety until he needed a breath of fresh air. And a walk. So his mind took him down to the coast where the salty air lapped at his nostrils the way the waves crashed against the shore. Sometimes, he’ll dip his feet in the undertow, close his eyes, and poetically wonder what it’s like to be carried away by the sea.

But tonight was not that night.

It was a Monday night, and he strolled on the dry sand, feeling his toes curl into the ground at his feet and reveling in the feeling of freedom. You could never feel free in a campus dormitory. They were stuffy and loud and a lot less private than anyone would imagine.

Ryan had also been a menace. Ever since the ‘break up’ (or whatever he was calling it), he had been harder and harder to live with. Pete Wentz was over tonight, so the two of them could brood together.

William shook his head and tried not to concentrate so much on Ryan. Tried to think about this moment. On this beach. Just south of Evertree Crescent.

The Pacific Ocean whispered to him, its tides kissing the sandy beach and the beach kissing it back. William watche that love fade away with each wash of the waves against the shore. Watched the way it was erased and the Pacific forgot, reeled back and leaned forward to kiss again.

William wondered if loves like that still exist.

Finally, he took a seat on the plot, where his footprints had imprinted upon the sand, and he watched the love of the tide to the Californian coast. He watched the sliver of moonlight that shone in the ripples of the water, the only other witness to this exchange in the night. The golden glow it casts sent William’s anxiety away and coaxed out a strange feeling of reverie. Of completeness.

William hardly remembered another time when he’d felt so at peace with himself. So tranquil. Perhaps, that was why he’s a literature major. Perhaps, chasing after words in the dead of night with the sounds of the crashing waves was more hopelessly romantic than he thought; and maybe there’s potential for a hopeless poet in this sea of vanity and mayhem that was Coopertown University.

A strangled sob behind William interrupts his train of thought.

He spun around to see a boy, a familiar, lanky and gangly looking boy with caramel skin and dark hair and long fucking legs. He’s huddled in a heap on the sand, choking on tears and drowning in his own misery. All that shined in the moonlight is a bright purple hoodie attached to his body.

“A-are you okay?” William stuttered, stupidly.

Another sob. This time, louder.

“I-I guess not.” William strode over and plops himself down next to the curled up boy before, cautiously, placing a hand on his shoulder and patting him, sympathetically. …awkwardly.

The boy shied away from his grip and sits up, wiping his dark eyes and trying to hide his face. “S-sorry. I’m a bit drunk.” He hiccupped.

“You’re bleeding,” William muttered in return, still cautiously reaching out to wipe blood from the boy’s cheek.

That’s when he notices the complete haggard appearance. Deep bruises resembling fingers on the back of his neck. Sores along his neck purpling and blackening. Blood dripping from his cheek to his neck to his shirt.

“You’re Gabe Saporta,” William blurted out before he can stop himself.

But Gabe’s not listening. Instead, he cried. Gabe Saporta the Playboy of Cooperstown University was crying in front of William Beckett… the invisible literature major.

The boy with the Spanish eyes fell back down to his fetal position in the sand, crying and crying, his tears dampening the sand below his eyes.

“What’re you doing up?” William tried to distract him, but all he did was feel awkward. He was never good with sobbing people. He remembered when Ryan had walked in after his dad had died. And when Ryan had walked in after his mother had gotten herself a better son. And when Ryan had walked in after Brendon got sick and tired of putting up with his shit.

“What’re you doing up?” Gabe mumbled back, and William can’t tell if it’s honest of jeering.

He supposes the former and said, “I’m just taking a walk.”

“So am I.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What? A man can’t walk in peace with blood running down his face. Oh, the nerve of you people. Think you can restrict my rights--”

William shushed his sob-stricken rant. “You’re hurt.”

….

A whisper, “I know.”

“What happened?”

But Gabe went silent, and William felt his heart fall into his stomach. He knew. He really did know; and for some reason, it broke his heart.

 

II.

 

The phone sat on only a couple of feet away from him, taunting and jeering at him in all its inanimate glory. Brendon stared at it back, just as evenly, watching the digital clock tick away on the front screen. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. At four minutes, Brendon decided that enough was enough and moved to dial out a very a familiar number. A number he knew by heart.  
Ryan Ross’s name popped up as he dialed the number, and he stopped and stared at it. The heart was long gone from beside the letters, but the fondness the words held had not yet lost their meaning. Brendon Urie stilled looked upon his ex-boyfriend’s name with a certain affection one felt when they were in love.

Brendon supposed he still was. It would be impossible to change that. He couldn’t change the way his life had accustomed itself to Ryan, nor the way his heart had grown to love Ryan and need Ryan as much as it needed oxygen. There was no changing that.

There was no changing the memories between them. The ones that stretched longer than Freemont Street, that Brendon lived on with his roommate, Patrick Stump, who was out on that particular night with a friend called Joe. Brendon couldn’t erase any of the memories. The good ones. The painful ones.

(They were sitting in a field. There was dandelions and ragweed and tall grasses everywhere, a perfect stretch of green all the way to the horizon. Along the field, there was a brick wall. A small, red wall that turned the scenery into something out of a Robert Frost poem. Something beautiful and spacious and impossible. An impossible field.

“Where are we?” Brendon laughed, clutching Ryan’s hand as he drags him through the grass that tickles their knees and to a picnic set-up, right under an old oak tree.

“Just a place I used to come when I was little,” Ryan told him, “I used to climb that tree, there, and watch everything around me.”

“You were a strange, fucking kid then,” Brendon teased, planting a kiss on Ryan’s cheek nonetheless.

“I was. But I really fucking loved this tree. It was perfect for climbing,” Ryan explained, sitting them down on the checkered blanket and pulling a cigarette out instead of a basket.

Brendon rested his head in Ryan’s lap, and the latter carded his hand through Brendon’s hair, absentmindedly.

Brendon hummed under his ministrations. “I love it when you do that.”

“I love you,” Ryan told him, pointedly blowing a smoke ring out for his boyfriend.

“Then why won’t you tell people you love me?”

“Because, Bren, it’s not that easy.”

Brendon huffed, sitting up. “What do you mean, ‘it’s not that easy?’ We love each other, right?”

“Brend--”

“Right?”

“Brendon, I love you more than there are stars in the sky.” And Ryan’s eyes were sincere. The sincerest they’ve ever been. He leaned towards Brendon to close the distance between them, to make  them whole again, to repair things; but Brendon stood up.

“What are you so afraid of? That someone won’t approve of our relationship?!”

“It’s not like that, Brendon. You don’t understand.” The summer breeze blew the smoke this way and that.

“Then help me understand!” He grabbed his hand desperately, squeezing it as though afraid the wind was going to take Ryan away.

Ryan squeezed back and used Brendon’s hand to pull himself up. Puffs fell from the cigarette in his hand, enclosing them in their own little haven of smoke- an artificial heaven in that grassy field.

“Brendon, I don’t want to share you. Not with the public. Not with anyone. You’re mine.”

“You’re embarrassed.”

“I’m scared.”

“I’ll be with you until the end.”

“Brendon. No.”

And Brendon had never been sure what the phrase ‘heartbreak’ ever really meant. He’s not sure if a heart really does break or if it’s an imagined feeling, a desperate metaphor, to convey some sort of broken feeling. But, in that moment, staring at Ryan, in that grassy field, Brendon swore he could hear the sounds of his heart breaking.)

 

III.

 

“Have you been shut in this dorm the whole time, Ryan?”

“Have you been straightening your hair again, Pete?”

….

“Touché.”

Ryan smiled at his older friend, letting him into the shit hole dormitory Cooperstown University scholarships paid for. “I’ve been working on a paper. You have a car; you could’ve visited anytime. What’s your excuse?”

“Gabe.”

“Ah.”

Ryan knew a thing or two about Gabe. Though, of course, the thing or two he knew wasn’t even that reliable to begin with. In fact, it was just rumors in passing that he ever heard anything about the great Gabriel Saporta. All he knew was that the kid was it. He was famous, here. His dad was the wealthiest man in town, a billionaire by the sounds of it, and Gabe had been sent to college just to make it look like he was responsible enough to be deemed owner of the company in his father’s passing. However, Gabe had retaliated with majoring in philosophy, drinking the rest of his brain cells out, and garnering a reputation for being some sort of Hugh Hefner that the gossip magazines never failed to include in their scandal columns of the week.

Ryan thought it was a recipe for disaster.

But Ryan’s never been a reliable source, to begin with.

The two boys made their way over to the second-hand sofa that was as equally overstuffed as the armchair and sank into it, enjoying the comforts of simplistic things after a hard week of their first semester.

“How’s Brendon?”

Ryan chose his words carefully, “We don’t talk anymore.”

“Why not?”

Ryan shrugged. “Drifted apart.”

And Ryan hated the way the lies sounded coming from his mouth. The way they sounded too obvious and vulnerable and so far from the truth. Ryan hated the way they were lies. How they hadn’t drifted apart, but rather were drilled apart by fight after fight that all had to do with Ryan’s insecurities. Ryan had driven them apart, and he was sure he’d never forgive himself for it

“Weren’t you two supposed to be moving in together?”

Ryan felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah.”

“Shame.” Pete stood and walked over to get a can of beer from the refrigerator. It was leftover Miller Lite from a housewarming party Ryan and William had had ages ago, and now Ryan was sure it was stale, but Pete took a swig anyways, savoring the taste and the refreshing feeling of cool liquid down his throat. “The way people drift apart.”

 

IV.

 

 

First Street was only two streets over from Abbotts Close, where Ryan and William lived. It was a small street full of quaint brick apartment complexes and terraced houses. One of the terraced homes belonged to Jon Walker, who was returning home from working a nightshift at the local bar he tended to. Tips had been generous that night, as though everyone was out getting drunk on a Monday night in the little college town, but Jon could hardly complain.

He fumbled with his keys in the dark, in light of the full moon, and finally managed to fit it in the lock and turn it. He sidled into his home and drop his keys on the table in the foyer when suddenly something (or someone, he should say) jumped out of the dark and tackled him to the ground. Jon yelped and fumbled for an object he could use to defend himself.

Then, the lights flickered on, and Jon saw a young man standing in front of him with shaggy chestnut hair and a perfect smile on his face. His teeth splayed across his pink lips, and he laughed, a harmonious note that emanated seamlessly from those very same lips. “I thought you were gonna piss yourself!”

Jon flushed. “Don’t fucking do that again, Spence.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing irritably. “I need coffee.”

“Jon, it’s midnight.”

“And you scared the sleep out of me,” he grumbled and began making his way towards the minute kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

Spencer shrugged. “I don’t have class tomorrow. Thought I’d spend the night.”

“So you broke in?”

“I know where you keep the spare key.”

“So you broke in?” Jon repeated.

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Fine, I broke in. What’re you gonna do- call the police?”

“I might,” Jon said, “the next time you scare me. I thought I was gonna die, Spence.”

“Oh, please, I’d never kill you, Jon.” Spencer fluttered his lashes towards the older man, almost flirtatiously. “I’d miss you too much. Where else would I go on my nights of boredom?”

“To a strip club?”

“Too messy.”

“Your right hand?”

“I’m more of a lefty,” Spencer joked, watching Jon smile as he prepared the coffee maker with the mix and the water.

“Spencer, you kill me, anyways,” Jon mumbled, under his breath, so Spencer did not hear over the hum of the refrigerator.

As the coffee pot began to churn and bubble, Jon took a seat at the island, and Spencer joined him, sympathetically patting his arm from his hard night at work. His muscles, Spencer noticed, were tense and sore, and soon he began kneading his shoulders, strategically working on a platonic massage for his friend.

Jon grunted out a thanks. “Feels good.”

“No problem,” Spencer replied, chipper, “how was work?”

“Work. Cassie came in, though, tipped me well.” He then pulled a wad of cash and dropped it to the island, the clanging of coins rattling around the room.

Cassie was a regular of Jon’s who came in often with a flirtatious smile and invitations to teach her how to play pool. So, once a week, when the bar was empty, Jon would leave the counter and encircle his arms around her waist and show her how to shoot at pole. Her hips often swayed against his or lingered a second too long, and Jon’s breath would hitch, but then she’d be nothing more of a ghost, on the other side of the table and asking the best way to shoot the three ball in.

For some reason, Spencer couldn’t stand stories about Cassie.

He then found a particularly nasty knot in Jon’s back and began working on that to distract himself. “You work tomorrow night?”

“Nah. Tuesdays and Fridays are my nights off,” Jon reminded his friend, groaning pleasantly at the knot in his back as Spencer loosened it considerably.

“What are we going to do with all this free time, then?” Spencer asked, trying to ignore the way he grinned at the thought of having Jon Walker all to himself.

“Sleep,” Jon muttered, the shock of the scare wearing off and the appeal of coffee wearing off, too.

“Your couch is killing my back,” Spencer interjected.

“Sleep with me,” Jon suggested, “not like you haven’t before.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, “when I was drunk.”

(It was his first time being fully and properly drunk. It was also his first time living in the dorm rooms on campus, and he had forgotten his key yet again. He had also had a not-so-helpful sullen roommate named Brent Wilson who had refused to unlock the door past midnight. And Spencer was on the lawn of an unfamiliar senior’s house, entire body soaked from someone turning the sprinklers on and drunken crocodile tears on his cheeks from his current predicament.

After much contemplation, he pulled out his phone and called his friend, Jon, who at the time had not yet dropped out of business college to tend bars and play acoustic shows at said bars. He bawled over the phone his location and then fell to the damp ground from much lack of coordination and cried a little more under the curtain of stars.

Ten minutes later, Jon found him, on the ground, nearly passed out next to a pool of his own vomit. “You’re a terrible drunk, Spence,” he said.

“I know,” he had mumbled, choking leftover spews of puke onto the lawn before Jon lifted him and helped fold him into his rickety Trans Am.

Once at his house, he had led Spencer into his bedroom and tucked him into bed with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin nearby before sliding into bed beside him.

“What’re you doing?” Spencer slurred.

“Sleeping,” Jon had mumbled, half into his pillow.

“With me?” Spencer had found himself giggling.

“That couch is a menace, and you’re prettier to look at.” Jon smiled.

Spencer had giggled for ten minutes after that, but then he forgot what he was laughing over. Promptly, he fell asleep. And beside him, Jon laid awake into the night.)

“Then get drunk again,” Jon suggested.

Spencer paused for a second to contemplate before humming, “Maybe I’ll sleep with you. That is, if you’re lucky, Mr. Walker.”

Jon laughed that night, and it felt refreshing.

 

 

V.

 

 

Vic returned home from Jaime’s late into the night, trying to not wake his sleeping brother in the nearby bedroom, but that feat proved useless as Mike was already up, in the kitchen, with his head in his hands.

“Mike, you okay?” Vic poked his head in, staring at his brother concerned.

“Mom’s not doing good,” he managed to mumble into his hands.

Vic frowned and walked into the kitchen, depositing his bag on the nearby chair and sidling into an adjacent one next to Mike. He put a comforting hand on his brother’s arm. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think the addiction clinic is helping her,” Mike whispered, as though afraid their (more than likely) passed out mother could hear them two rooms down. “I think she’s used again.”

Vic frowned. His mother was one of the biggest worries of the young college sophomore. She was an addict, and she had fallen in love a couple years ago with heroin. She had let it into her veins, and it had quelled the worries of reality for her. It had eaten her away, too, flesh and bone. Bit by bit, it picked and gnawed at her raw until she was wasting away in her bedroom. Every time Vic saw his sick rag doll of a mother, limp and lifeless, he gave himself a cut on the wrist to medicate.

If she could have her addiction, so could he.

And there was Mike Fuentes, in the centrifuge of the problems, trying to clean it up.

“She couldn’t have used. Thought her dealer was away for the week.”

“Nah, I think I saw Obbo the other day. In his garden,” Mike laughed hollowly, as though the idea of Obbo doing anything ‘normal’ was hilarious. As though the man did nothing but deal drugs every second of his life.

“She wouldn’t use,” Vic tried to reassure himself more than Mike.

Their mother had been at the Cooperstown Clinic for three weeks now, completely sober. She had been forced to after Mike had yelled and yelled his voice hoarse that he couldn’t be the only person providing for this family. After all, he had declined college to keep his job at the local pizzeria and his second shift at the campus bookstore. Vic always felt bad that he was the one to get schooling, but Mike refused to let him drop out to get a second job as well.

“She would. And if she does, the clinic will kick her off the program for good. They won’t keep dealing with her slip-ups.”

“What’ll happen?”

Mike shrugged. “She could overdose. Pick up a disease. Die.”

A lump formed in Vic’s throat, and he began subtly picking at one of the cuts that had begun to scab over on his wrist. He couldn’t imagine his mother dying. Even if she was wasting away, the concept of death was heavy upon his mind, and he simply could not fathom it. His mother had been present through his entire life, even after his father had left them at such a young age; she had been a constant in his life, addicted or not. And now, the idea of her dying…. Vic tried not to cry.

Mike looked at his watch. “You should go to bed, Vic. You still have class in the morning.”

“Let me drop out,” he whispered, trying to ignore the tears welling up in his eyes. “Let me help you support her. Let me help you, Mike.”

“Vic, no. I’m working for you. I’m your brother; I’m supposed to look after you.”

“No,” Vic corrected, “ _I_ should be looking after _you_.”

“Vic,” Mike sighed, “make her proud. Stay in college.”

Vic couldn’t even argue with that, but he could finger the blade in his pocket, pricking his finger slightly. And for some reason, he felt a little better.

 

VI.

 

“Jack, psst, are you awake?”

“Mm?”

“Jack, psst?!”

Jack’s eyes fluttered open in the dead of the night. The digital alarm clock on his dresser was blaring 1:00 A.M. He groaned and looked down at the his friend before moving to hang off the side of the bed, skunk hair dangling in front of his face and eyes twinkling like the stars outside. “What, Alex?”

“I can’t sleep,” Alex said, and Jack frowned.

From a young age, Alex had been stricken with insomnia. For the life of him and all the wars in Rome, he couldn’t sleep. He was often kept awake, tracing intricate thoughts in his head until they turned into spindles and webs and gossamer threads that trickled away at the last minute as he tried to reel them in. Often, he would be up for days straight, no sleep, and nothing but his thoughts jeering at him in the back of his head.

“Why not?” Jack always tried to look at things in black-and-white. Why and why nots.

Alex shrugged. “Tom? The fight? I don’t know, Jack. I miss Lisa; I’m sick of sleeping alone.”

And Alex was only partially telling the truth. He didn’t really miss Lisa, so much as he missed the idea of Lisa. The idea of falling asleep next to someone, another warm body wrapped around his to substitute a blanket in the night, smelling someone else’s shampoo in the middle of the night, hearing hearts beat and breaths tickle his neck when the insomnia got bad. It was reassuring, he supposed, to have Lisa around.

“Come here.” Jack scooted over in his bed and made room for Alex.

Without hesitation, the older boy accompanied him, snuggling under the blankets. “Why?” he asked Jack in return.

“It’s not gay, Alex, shut up,” Jack laughed into the sleeping house, “I’m helping you sleep.”

“Oh, baby,” Alex purred in his disgruntled, half-asleep voice that was deep and garbled. A chuckle followed.

Jack elbowed him lightly. “Shut up, prick. I’ll spread a rumor around campus that you put out easy, Gaskarth.”

“And I’ll tell everyone, you’re the one I put out for,” Alex said, though he wasn’t sure how that sounded like a threat. Honestly, his mind had started to drift again.

Jack laughed again, “I’m sure people already think that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “We’re a bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Nothing wrong with touching,” Alex breathed into the back of Jack’s neck watching the hairs stand on the nape and marveling in it all. “Touching is good.”

They both paused. A standstill in the middle of the bed. Alex, who had been lost in pillow talk for the past couple of days was finally letting his mind take hold and weave whatever sentences it pleased. Unfortunately, for him, Sigmund Freud might have been quite correct on a few theories with the unconscious mind.

“Yeah,” Jack whispered back, “that’s what your mom said last night.”

Alex laughed, but it was hollow. Maybe he was a bit more conscious than even he knew, and maybe there a pang of disappointment hidden in that laugh.

 

VII.

 

Kellin Quinn snuck in through the window of his bedroom, on Carnot Avenue, a fancy old Victorian house painted an ivy green and whitewashed along the windows and doors and wraparound porch. He had climbed the porch to his second-floor window, for he was out past his curfew, tipsy and high from the pot the party had had, and definitely not wanting to get caught by his father.

It was something that scared him more than anything, his father. He had an insatiable temper that he seemed to enjoy taking out on his only son, Kellin. And Kellin was most certainly not in the mood. In fact, some of the bruises from their last fight had yet to heal. That, and the breakup with his high school sweetheart, Katelynne, was taking its toll on him.

He remembered the texts on her phone, seeping into his mind like a flagging poison. He remembered the view from her bedroom window as he drove past. The view of a shadowy couple beneath the sheets. Of noises of pleasure and begging and noises she had once made for him, out in the open, and swallowed by someone else’s lips. Noises that should’ve only been for Kellin, and she was parading them around with someone else.

He tried not to think so much as he tripped into his bedroom. Pausing, he listened in the nearby rooms but could hear nothing from his parents’ bedroom.

He was safe, for now.

 

VIII.

 

“What do you mean ‘got out of hand?’”

“Exactly what it means. Can you and Pete go fix this mess, please? He’s in no shape to go back there.”

“Alright, fine… thanks for helping him, I guess…, William. You’re a good kid.”

“So are you, Ryan.” He hung up and pocketed his phone.

William was still at the beach, listening to the crashing of the Pacific waves against the shore. Gabe Saporta was a little to his left, still curled up in the fetal position, his tears long dried. He was now snoring softly against the grains of sand, rustling them like a light breeze, and William almost smiled at the cute way the Gabe Saporta slept. He snuffled in his sleep and smacked his lips.

William prodded him. “Hey… wake up.”

Gabe’s eyes fluttered, but he made no effort to move.

“We can’t sleep here,” William said, still watching the high tide, “come back to my place.”

Gabe didn’t even have the snark to say ‘no’. Instead, he let William take hold of his upper arm (and the younger marveled at how firm his bicep was), and lead him away from the beach. The crashing of waves grew fainter and fainter until all Gabe could hear was the disoriented hum of silence in the air as they walked past the daunting structures of Evertree Crescent.

“W-why?” Gabe slurred. “Why are you helping me?”

“You’re hurt,” William said softly, “a-and I’m involved now.”

“Oh,” he replied stupidly and leaned against William, closing his eyes and mumbling out inebriated, “You smell good.”

“Th-thanks,” he stammered back, tightening an arm around Gabe’s waist and beginning to walk him down Evertree Crescent towards the little street of Abbotts Close, a few blocks north.

“L-like soap and fruit,” he continued on, nuzzling into William’s neck.

“Thanks?”

But Gabe didn’t say anything else as he inhaled the scent of William into his lungs. There were still bruises on the back of his neck and cuts bleeding on his cheek and his body would be sore and sick the next morning, but none of that seemed to matter with the echoes of waves in his mind and the smell of this boy ingrained into his brain.

“We have to clean up these cuts,” William told him.

Gabe nodded, too drunk to argue like he normally would. Too drunk to slip away back to his condo to self-medicate away the pangs of the night.

They made it to the dormitory on Abbotts Close, and it’s empty. Pete and Ryan must have left for Gabe’s condo to quell the party that had gotten out of hand. And William knew it wasn’t Ryan’s forte, but he had a feeling Gabe wouldn’t feel half as comfortable coming with him if there had been company. And God knows, he had to get him off the streets….

With a plunk, Gabe fell to the floor the minute William had let go to close the front door beside him. And with a heave, he had thrown up across the carpet.

William sighed; this would be a long night.

 

#### Tuesday

 

IX.

 

She stood in the midst of the rising suns, all the purples and reds and pinks crashing down around her in a sea of watercolor. She stood in the midst of this panorama with tears streaming down her face and her voice lost somewhere in her throat. And in her hands was an empty bottle of pills that fell to the ground and a gun that she held up to her temple, trembling.


	3. Autumn Sonatas (and Goodbyes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex, meanwhile, ran out of the room before he could even think of grabbing his jacket. Before Jack could even manage to wake up and register the mistake Alex had made. Kissing his best friend. His very straight best friend, Alex would like to add, though of course Alex saw himself as equally as straight as Jack. So why he would even have wanted to kiss Jack in the first place….
> 
> Alex attempted to erase his mistake from his mind, hoping Jack would not remember when he was more coherent, around noon. He hoped that if Jack did, they could both laugh it off as Alex being sick or tired or missing Lisa too much. Even if none of those were true….

I.

 

He sat in his living room at five in the morning with a cup of coffee beside him, a cigarette, and a drawing poised on his lap. He’d been drawing it for the past three hours when a gunshot had awoken him from his Monroeville apartment.

That, of course, was hardly any means for concern around where he lived, for gunshots in the middle of the night were plentiful and the murders on the news gave the place an eerie reputation. In fact, Monroeville had been listed as one of the worst vacationing spots along the Californian coast, nothing compared to its sister city, Cooperstown, only miles away.

But Gerard Way hardly cared for politics or the rivalries between the two coastal cities. Rather, all he cared for was finishing this drawing that had managed to occupy most of his time. It was of two lovers, black and burgundy and bloody, being wrenched away. Star-crossed lovers, Gerard loved the romanticism of it all. The beauty in the tragedy. It had been a hobby he had picked up after rehab to distract him from his rapacious urges of an addiction that crawled through him and tore at him limb by limb. Flesh from flesh. Bone by bone.

Now, with insomnia ringed deeply around his eyes, fresh, he took another swig of his coffee, swishing the warm liquid around in his mouth as though bathing in the only addiction he had left: caffeine. 

Finally, without the gunshot ringing out across the street, Gerard could hear the scratching of pen against paper, watching the ink spread across the stark white pages, blemishing the picture. Marring it. Scarring it. However, this tranquil moment of reverie could only extend for so long before the sounds of sirens whined outside his window.

He strode over to the window and shut it, quarantining himself from the warm September air and the autumn breeze that had lapped at his face playfully, tickling him in the middle of the night when the addictions ate at him the worst. When the nightmares kicked in…. When the insomnia came out to combat these…. 

It took another moment of the stuffy air inside his apartment, which smelled of dirty socks and musty mothballs and AirWick that had been strategically placed around the place to cancel out the aforementioned smells, before Gerard was able to fall back into his mindless routine of scribbling against the paper and humming to himself an old Misfits tune he remembered.

It was in that moment that he wished he hadn’t answered the call.

“Hello?” Gerard flipped open his cell phone when it began to ring.

“Gerard.” It was his partner, Ray Toro, and for some reason, his voice sounded importunate. Gerard held his breath as he rattled off a jargon of words that Gerard did not want to hear at five in the morning with his coffee, cigarette, and drawing pencil. “We’ve got the requested jurisdiction into Cooperstown. Not a moment too soon because I think we have a serial killer on our hands.”

Gerard’s mouth dried. “What?”

“Yeah. Two victims killed last night. Both bodies found with an empty bottle of pills, but they were both clearly shot. The perp attempted to make it look like a suicide, but ballistics proved otherwise.”

“Ray, it’s five in the morning,” Gerard stated, blatantly obvious. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Gerard, are you okay?” Ray asked, voice uncannily quiet, as though he were afraid to ask the question that really wanted to pour from his mouth, _‘Are you using again?’_

“Fine,” Gerard snapped, biting his lip and snubbing the cigarette out in the nearby ash tray. He watched the orange glow diminish before his eyes before sighing. “What were the victims’ names.”

Ray paused for a second, and the shuffling sounds of paper could be heard over the scratchy connection of Gerard’s cheap cell phone service.

“Oh, here it is.” Ray sounded almost chipper. “Greta Salpeter and Tom Gaskarth.”

 

 

II.

 

 

William had been up for the better part of the night, with a cup of bitter black coffee and his shoddy laptop, which was opened to a blank word document, as William had spent the better part of his night attempting to type up a story due for his creative writing minor. So far, his attempts had been unsuccessful.

Ryan and Pete had not returned from Gabe’s condo, and William was secretly glad. For some reason, he felt that Gabe did not want news of this incident to leak across the campus. William had only caught a few things from his slurred words on the long trek back to Abbott Close, but that had been enough.

_“Fuckin’ baster’…. B-bit his dick, though. Tha’ll show ‘im.”_

It seemed that William’ suspicions about the finger-shaped bruise had proved correct. Troubled, he wondered how far the stranger had gotten with the drunken boy, now sleeping soundly in William’s bed after having thrown up everywhere the second they had entered the house.

But, on that night, William didn’t mind gathering the towels they had in the dormitory to clean up the vomit even as the stench pervaded the air. He felt he owed something to Gabe Saporta, this stranger who had never given him a single glance let alone the time of day. William felt like he owed this to the world. After all, didn’t everyone deserve a chance at redemption?

And William’s past was not exactly ideal.

He kept trying to think up a good short story, but all that came to mind was the sleeping boy in the nearby room, sleeping off his misery. But even William knew that the incident in the light would be worse than the night before. The incident without the drunkenness would be a lot wore. And because of that, William feared for Gabe Saporta.

William could remember, a lifetime ago and miles away, when he had been in high school. He could remember the party, clearly, as though just yesterday he had been at his friend Tom’s house and drinking away his troubles. He could remember the room spinning and people screaming and bloody bile everywhere, all across the bathroom floor. He could remember screaming and crying and Ryan tugging on his jacket, urging him to leave. That they had to go. That they couldn’t stay there.

He remembered thick tears streaming down his face as he buried his face in Ryan’s jacket that smelled of car fresheners and cheap leather. He remembered how that smell had been a lifeline for him as Ryan had brought him back to his house, with its shabby dry-wall and dead garden and broken screen door. William remembered sobbing into Ryan’s arms, long into the morning and out of his drunkenness.

He remembered the first moment the rising sun lit, he and Ryan were curled up on his bed, both had not slept. Rather, they had both spent the night staring at the cracks in Ryan’s ceiling and the peeled tan paint and the ceiling fan gently turning and circulating in the hot summer night. 

He remembered the way Ryan had turned to him, eyes completely honest and complacent and rimmed red from a night of crying. He remembered him saying, _“It’s going to be okay, Bill. I promise.”_

William remembered how it wasn’t.

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_

It was too late for that. He remembered it all. The sobbing. The screaming. His own failure fresh in his mind.

But, really, what haunted William in the silence of the night, was the look upon Tom’s face. Cold. Pallid. And dead.

 

 

III.

 

 

Waking up with a stifling headache and a groan, Alex found himself tangled around his best friend in the little hours of the morning when the sun had just risen into the sky and splayed its amber beams across Cooperstown. Alex blinked in the sunlight, watching the pale shadows dance across the room and swim in his vision. Finally, he prodded Jack in his sleep.

“I have to go home,” he hissed into his ear.

Jack swatted at him and yawned. “St-stay.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Jack asked. “Too fucking early to be up, Al.”

“I don’t sleep,” he countered back watching Jack’s brow knit in frustration. It was one of Jack’s biggest pet peeves about his friend, his insomnia. The way he never slept. The way he was chipper in the morning and energetic at night. The way Alex’s sleeping schedule arranged itself, often, to accommodate Jack.

“Maybe you should start?” suggested Jack, rolling over and hooking an arm around his friend’s waist before pulling him down across the bed, tangling the two of them up again in a mass of limbs that soon Alex was unsure which was his and Jack’s.

It was almost like they had melded together.

“I can’t sleep, Jack. I haven’t been able to.”

“Liar,” Jack stifled another yawn, “you always sleep at my house.”

Alex paused. This was true. Even if just for a single hour, Alex managed to find sweet reprieve at Jack’s house. Maybe there was something in the air on his street, or maybe there was some warmth or comfort of sleeping with a friend that made everything that stressed him out subside, but all Alex knew was that he was indeed quite sedated at Jack’s house. Always.

So Alex corrected himself, “I can’t go _back_ to sleep.”

“Why not?” Jack sounded sleepy and irritable.

He shrugged. “I think I’m going to go home now.”

And without even thinking about it, Alex leaned down and pecked Jack on the lips. It was simple and chaste and only a second long, but Alex could taste the morning breath bristling in through his mouth and the leftover juice that Jack had drunk last night and even the remnants of mint toothpaste fresh on his teeth. Alex could taste everything in that single second before he pulled away, wide-eyed and red in the face.

Jack yawned again and smacked his lips, eyes closed.

Alex, meanwhile, ran out of the room before he could even think of grabbing his jacket. Before Jack could even manage to wake up and register the mistake Alex had made. Kissing his best friend. His very straight best friend, Alex would like to add, though of course Alex saw himself as equally as straight as Jack. So why he would even have wanted to kiss Jack in the first place….

Alex attempted to erase his mistake from his mind, hoping Jack would not remember when he was more coherent, around noon. He hoped that if Jack did, they could both laugh it off as Alex being sick or tired or missing Lisa too much. Even if none of those were true….

Alex so desperately wanted to believe that he had made a mistake, that he hardly noticed the squadron cars at his house until it was too late. Until he was being hounded by officers asking who he was. Until he saw his mother sobbing on the front porch, her hand having shook so badly that she dropped her tea cup to the ground with a piercing shatter. Until Alex was hearing, in slow motion, his mother screaming at one of the officers to, “Bring him back! What have you done?! My baby!”

A wave of strident blue and red lights bathed his body until he looked cobalt in wake of the golden sun. He waded his way through the officers and the photographers and the paramedics, in a daze, trying to decipher what had happened here.

What was going on? 

Finally, though, an officer approached him, burly and paunchy and balding. He smacked his lips when he talked, “Are you Alex Gaskarth?”

“Y-yes.” Alex nearly forgot how to form words as his head wove in-and-out of the surrounding scene.

“This is about your brother, kid,” the officer continued, staring at his pad of notes. Alex wondered what he could be writing. Whether he was recording this conversation or not. “Tom? Your brother, he’s dead.”

The next couple minutes were a blur for him. He could still hear the wails from his mother echoing down the street, could even see a few neighbors peeping from closed blinds and clipped hedges at the scene around them, trying to avert their eyes but unable to. It was like a sick car crash that people couldn’t help but stare at as the mangled bodies of the car’s occupants were revealed, bloody and gory and torn apart.

Alex hardly remembered what he did next. All the decisions that ran rampant through his head seemed challenging and harder than they were. The few steps to console his mother and help clean up the glass from the broken cup at her feet seemed demanding and something he was incapable of doing. His legs were like lead. He felt like he was drowning. Bile was rising from his throat, and soon he was on his knees, throwing up on the officer’s polished black shoes.

The officer withdrew his shoe and sulked as Alex retched on the ground, over and over, until his mouth was dry and he was reduced to spitting on the lawn. The fresh lawn that Tom had mowed just the other day….

Hot tears stung his eyes, but Alex refused to let them fall in front of the audience. He refused to let the neighbors and the officers and his poor, old mother see him cry. He outright refused.  
So he did the only sensible thing he could think of.

Alex ran. He ran and he ran until his house was a tiny blur in the distance.

 

 

IV.

 

 

Brendon Urie woke up when his roommate, Patrick Stump, prodded him awake at nine o’clock. In Brendon’s opinion, this was much too early, considering he’d been up late into the night recording an acoustic song for his music major. He and Patrick were planning to play together for the next semester, so Brendon had been practicing his Bob Marley cover.

_“Don’t worry… about a thing….”_

Patrick had made pancakes for the two of them, albeit burnt pancakes, but Brendon wolfed them down hungrily. He’d been starving himself since the break-up with Ryan, but soon Patrick had coaxed him out of the bad habit, telling him that if Ryan had been worth starving himself over, then Ryan would be here with him now.

And Brendon had to hand it to his single, clueless, never-had-a-real-kiss friend. He did have a point.

_“Cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”_

“You’re pleasant today,” Patrick mused, watching Brendon lick the syrup that had caked itself around his lips and laughing a little at the other man’s attempts.

Brendon shrugged. “You’re right, Patrick. Ryan isn’t worth it.”

“No one is worth hurting yourself over, Brendon,” Patrick whispered, and Brendon smiled at his friend.

The two had moved in together in sophomore year after meeting through their music major and singing Journey together. ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ was forever their song, and Brendon always drunkenly serenaded it during karaoke nights at Patrick. The other would then blush and join in after a bit of alcohol had absorbed in his system. Without the liquid courage, Patrick would dash from the room to the chorus of laughter.

“Sometimes, though, I feel like he is,” Brendon murmured, staring at his thin figure that had been a result of starvation the past few weeks. He could count the ribs up his side, and he hated what he’d done to himself. “Sometimes, I feel like Ryan is worth anything.”

“But he’s not,” Patrick corrected him, “Like I said, Brendon, Ryan would be here if he gave a damn.”

Brendon frowned and then smiled goofily. “You’re here.”

Patrick smiled back. “Yeah. I know. I’m not the leaving-type, so get used to it.”

“ _Rise up this morning. Smiled with the rising sun.”_

“You better not leave,” Brendon warned, chuckling a little, “who will make me pancakes in the morning?”

“No one. You’ll starve.”

“My point exactly.”

“You can’t afford to lose more weight, Brendon.”

“I know.”

The mood had turned somber once more, and Brendon was left with nothing to distract himself of thoughts of Ryan. Ryan Ross had pretty much been perfect to Brendon Urie. He remembered his skinny torso and the way his lanky legs wrapped themselves around Brendon’s waist in the heat of the moment. Brendon remembered Ryan’s lips pressed to his skin and trailing behind him empty promises and broken hearts in the wake of his kisses. 

_“Three little birds perched by my doorstep.”_

Brendon remembered the heartbreak when Ryan told him that was all they would ever be: nothing.

He tried not to remember all the little things about Ryan, but it was hard to in the early hours in the morning when Brendon was stress-free and had nothing to occupy his time except the soundtrack replaying in his head.

_“Singing sweet songs. Of melodies pure and true.”_

For a whole year, Ryan Ross had been Brendon’s life. They had even been close to moving in with each other for the next year. A nice little house they’d been looking at. It had been white, and although it didn’t have a picket fence around it, Brendon could very well see the happy memories playing filmily against the shuttered whitewashed walls. He could see him and Ryan with a dog nipping playfully at their ankles, and maybe a cat or two considering how much Ryan adored them. He used to dream of them falling asleep together and waking up together and even doing mundane things: like taking out the trash or fixing the broken cable or cuddling with tea during thunderstorm weather. Brendon used to dream he had a life with Ryan Ross; now all he saw was disaster in the wake.

_“Saying, ‘this is my message to you.’”_

The doorbell rang, and Patrick went to go answer it as Brendon lost himself in his maze of thoughts that all screamed Ryanryanryan and thought of his number, his heartless name, in his phone. That thought of all the things they used to do. That thought of the heartbreak in that impossibly green field. Brendon blinked back tears as he finished the pancake.

“Brendon, there’s someone here for you!” Patrick called to him in the vestibule.

Brendon blinked, yet his heart jumped. Part of him was wondering if it could be Ryan with flowers or chocolates or apologies or something of the sort. He wondered if maybe luck had blessed him that day and answered his prayers of which the only evidence of his yearning was the skin pulled taut around his ribcage.

He wandered into the adjoining room where Patrick was blocking the threshold of the door and speaking to man that did not sound like Ryan. This man’s voice was nasally and higher-pitched than Ryan’s.

“Brendon.” Patrick took a step out of the way. “This is Detective Way.”

_“Singin’ don’t worry about a thing.”_

Brendon looked at the dark-haired man at the front door who most certainly didn’t look like a detective. He was small and thin with a pale and sallow face and dark hair that was shaggy and unkempt as though he’d been up for half the night or something. Brendon tried to ignore the nagging disappointment that it wasn’t Ryan.

“Mr. Urie,” he stammered, skimming through his notes, “I understand you knew Greta Salpeter.”

“Y-yes,” Brendon stuttered, wondering what lovely Greta had to do with any of this.

Greta had been Brendon’s other lifesaver after the breakup. She had picked him up from the bathroom floors after too many drinks when Patrick was staying late at Joe’s or out studying through the night at the campus library, open all night. She had cleaned his clothes and forced him into showers when he wallowed in his bed for days on end. She had let him cry on her shoulders whenever the thoughts of Ryan lingered a second too long. Greta Salpeter, all in all, had saved Brendon’s life.

“Maybe we should go inside…,” the detective suggested, motioning with his hand.

Patrick moved back to let him in, but Brendon stepped forward. “No. What’s wrong with Greta? Is she okay?”

“I really think--”

“What’s wrong with Greta?!” Brendon demanded.

The detective sighed, looking like he would rather be anywhere else than there. Almost apologetically, he said, “Mr. Urie, Greta Salpeter is dead.”

_Cause every little thing is gonna be alright…._

 

V.

 

The coffee shop was always warm and inviting, except now it felt cold and morbid whenever Frank stepped inside. He knew Jamia’s work schedule enough to trot into the café, with his laptop under his arm, without having to see her on that particular day. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see her, anyways, after their last encounter. In fact, Frank couldn’t even drink frappucinos anymore, he was that miserable with his life.

Bob had yelled at him for most of the day and at the pet store during their shifts when he saw Frank moping instead of playing with the dogs, like he normally did on his breaks. Then, he had locked the door to the apartment and refused to let Frank back in until he got out of the place and lived a little.

Sullenly, Frank had wandered into the coffee shop, attempting to write an essay for his psychology class that he was behind in, at the moment. The break-up had distracted him. No surprise there….

He took his usual seat, watching the passerby in the shop order their drinks and continue on with life not burdened by a broken heart. Frank envied them. He wishes he could go through life like that. He wishes he could repair his heart, but Jamia had taken pieces of it that were crucial to its restoration. It would be impossible to patch it up without her.

“Can I sit here?” a voice asked.

Frank looked up to see a ashen man hovering over the table, with a giant cup of coffee in his hand and a pile of note in the other. Absently, Frank nodded and the stranger took his seat, taking a chug of his coffee and licking his lips. Frank watched out of the corner of his eye as the clacking of computer keys mingled with his pen scratching against paper.

It was like an autumn sonata for the two of them, locked in their own worlds.

And, before their eyes, life continued to turn. And that still meant Frank was broken-hearted. Meanwhile, across from him, Gerard Way sat biting his lip and studying the notes from the murders.  
It had been all unfamiliar. Both victims had ingested enough pills to make them groggy and vulnerable before they were shot. Ballistics had proved that the shot was not of suicide but made to look like a suicide. It was all very peculiar.

After all, wouldn’t the perpetrator just finish the job with the pills. It would be a cleaner job. No evidence. No questions raised. No chaos.

Gerard chewed on his pen cap and thought to himself.

At the table, neither spoke.

 

VI.

 

“Finally,” Vic breathed out to himself when he entered the empty bathroom at the campus. It was one of the grungier ones that hardly anyone went into because of the years of graffiti piled up and vandalism to the stalls. Big bold letters of names and hearts and racial slurs hung around the bathroom along with the rancid stench that lingered. Vic tried to ignore it as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and surveyed his appearance.

He liked to watch himself as he pulled out the razorblade and lightly traced it against the skin of his wrist, teasing himself with the piece of silver. He liked to watch himself make the first incision, slowly cutting into his skin and watching the blood drip from his skin and to the porcelain sink in front of him. The mirror made Vic look so small, despite how big the thing he was doing was. But that was okay because Vic always saw himself as small and insignificant, anyways.

Maybe that’s why he made the first cut, in the beginning. Maybe that’s what led him to this addiction. He loved the feeling of the razor pressed to his wrist, the blade slicing through his skin and hovering above the blue of his veins. He liked watching the blood pour from his arm and stain the white sink in front of him. He liked to watch it stain his own flesh, marking it with all of his imperfections.

The addiction, though, had been eating Vic up for some time as he progressed with life. The cuts became deeper and more frequent and often he snuck into public restrooms to get it done, staring at himself in the mirror, and praying to a God who had let him down that no one walk in.

Vic closed his eyes as the razor ran down his wrist, kissing it like a silver temptress. And Vic was hooked. Ravenously, he criss-crossed the blade against his wrist into intricate designs and letters and words and a heart. The blood continued to drip and he could feel it against his fingers, a thick burgundy coating his nails and running down…down…down to the tiled floor of the campus bathroom.

Finally, Vic opened his eyes, and what he saw in the mirror made him drop the razor blade to the floor.

Staring back at him was a pair of blue eyes belonging to another boy.

 

VII.

 

 

“You’re awake.” 

“Mmphg?”

“Are you okay?”

“W-wha--” But the rest of the sentence never left his mouth as nausea overcame him and he leapt up, stumbling to the bathroom before falling down beside the toilet and slamming his eyes shut as he puked into the bowl. He could feel the radiance of the ceiling light spilling down upon him, and it made his migraine worse and worse. He felt sore and beat up like someone had attacked him last night….

“Are you okay?” the strange boy asked.

Gabe certainly didn’t remember him from last night, though he vaguely wondered if maybe the boy had been the cause for his soreness. If he’d been so drunk that he let someone get away with taking advantage of him… Gabe’s walls built themselves back up as he snapped, “Oh, yeah, just getting reacquainted with ol’ John, here. Swapping stories about the good old days.”

The other boy giggled at this, and Gabe wondered how this lanky kid could possibly have gotten him to his apartment and taken advantage of him without being overtaken by Gabe. He spit into the toilet the remnants of his stomach. “You were a mess when I found you last night,” he finally said, and that piqued Gabe’s interest.

“Y-you found me like this?” he asked, standing up and surveying the damages in the mirror. Some cuts… finger-shaped bruises… what looked like a hickey on his collarbone. His sides hurt, and Gabe wondered whether any of his ribs were cracked for whatever reason.

“Yeah. I’m William.” The boy held out his hand, but Gabe refused to take it.

Instead, he said, rather abruptly, “I’m leaving.”

William blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I haven’t been overcome with nightingale syndrome, you know?” Gabe crossed his arms.

William stumbled over his words, “I was just-- being n-nice. I found you on the beach. Bleeding,” he added for good measure.

Gabe wasn’t impressed as he began walking out of the dormitory before realizing, much to his disapproval, that he was stripped of his shirt and his pants. He spun around so fast that William reeled back. “Where are my clothes?!”

“Y-you threw up over them. I took them down to the laundry room. Th-they’ll be done soon.” He paused before gaining some confidence under the hard stare of Gabe. “But you can borrow mine. We’re probably the same size.”

Gabe made an irritated hum before nodding, and William led the way into the bedroom and threw a v-neck top at him and a pair of skinny jeans. Begrudgingly, Gabe accepted it and wandered into the bathroom to change.

He stared in the mirror at his reflection, surveying the damage. The bruises. A cut or two across his face. Dried blood on his arm. He frowned and wondered who had done this. He couldn’t remember anything about last night: about wandering to the beach, or meeting William, or even going home with them. He wondered if they had sex last night. He wondered if someone drugged him at the party. Gabe wondered many things that raced through his mind until he was on his knees again, throwing up. Hangovers were a bitch.

William knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”

“Did we have sex?” Gabe asked, wrenching the door open and staring down at William.

The boy looked flustered. “W-what? N-no! I cleaned you up. You couldn’t even walk. I-I was just helping….” He looked so pitiful that Gabe almost wanted to thank him, but a part of him couldn’t. A part of him couldn’t help but project his anger at himself onto this poor, helpless boy.

“Well…,” Gabe sounded defeated, “Thanks.”

“Pete cleaned up your house last night.”

“How do you know Pete?”

“My roommate, Ryan Ross.”

Recognition flooded Gabe’s face. “You know Ross?”

“Been friends since high school.”

Gabe smiled and almost forgot that he was mad at William for some unknown reason. Mad that he couldn’t remember last night. Mad that he had let someone drug him. Mad that he had taken his guard down….

“Last night….” William paused, biting his lip and looking uncomfortable. “Last night, you said… you said someone hurt you. Th-that you bit his d-dick. A-are you okay?”

Gabe wondered if the stutter was normal for William or if he was just nervous around the playboy. He tried to remember telling this to William, but his mind blanked. He snarled, “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“I just--”

But it was too late. Gabe had stormed out of the dormitory in William’s clothes.

 

 

VIII.

 

Jack received two calls the afternoon of September 25th. He’d woken up blearily to an empty bed and stared at his phone only to see two voicemails from familiar numbers. The first was from Alex.

He punched in his password and put the receiver up to his ear, listening to the scratchy connection of static that Alex’s phone always seemed to honed. Jack tried not to chuckle.

However, his playful mood was immediately dampened when all he heard on the other line were sniffles. Sobs. Hitched sobs and hiccups that rang through Jack’s very empty room and haunted the boy. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard his best friend crying, but nothing came to mind. Alex Gaskarth simply did not cry.

He tried to call his friend, but there was no answer, and Jack growled at the phone as though this was its fault.

His last sane thought was to check his voicemail for the second message, which was a good thing because it was Alex’s mother. She was crying, too. “Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, Jack. But Alex is missing….”

 

IX.

 

Frank Iero also received a phone call on September 25th, however his was in the evening. He was still at the local campus café when it happened, too, as he had immersed himself in his essay and nearly completed it. The stranger man had run off after receiving a phone call, too, that soundd urgent. He slurped down the remnants of his coffee and practically ran out of the shop.

That had been an hour ago.

Frank’s phone rang and he knew from the heavy drumbeat tone that it was Bob. He flipped open his phone. “Hello?”

“Frank.” Bob was frantic. “You have to go see Jamia.”

“Bob,” Frank sighed, already feeling a headache coming on, “first you tell me to leave her alone. Now you tell me to go for it. I don’t know about you, but this sounds like mixed signals.” Frank was cheeky.

“No time for jokes, Frankie,” Bob’s voice lowered as he said this, and he paused for dramatic effect. “Jamia’s in the hospital, Frank. She was attacked.”

Frank hardly heard anything else Bob said.

 


	4. Of Coffee and Cubby Holes

#### Wednesday

The _Monroeville City and District Gazette_ read on that morning:

_Tragedy has struck on the Cooperstown University campus, last Tuesday night, around three in the morning, when resident, Tom Gaskarth, and college student, Greta Salpeter, were found dead in the city beside an empty bottle of pills._

_Authorities have confirmed it was not suicide, but rather a murder._

_However, let it be known to the city residents that lead investigator Detective Gerard Way, who was unavailable for comment, has had his own dark past with a history of pill addictions and alcohol abuse that sent him into a rehabilitation center for a week. Could this dark past affect his judgment in the case? That remains to be seen…._

 

I.

 

Vic paced back-and-forth across the campus plaza, past the benches full of students all studying for tests or typing up papers. He passed the fountain where autumnal leaves banked against the sides. His breathing was erratic, sweat was pouring from his temples and down his cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the sticky humidity that was bathing the occupants of Cooperstown. Rather, it had to do with the boy sitting on the other side of the fountain, immersed in a law textbook.

It was the same boy who’s eyes had swam in the mirror in the bathroom. The same boy who had watched the blood drip from Vic’s wrist and stain the porcelain below. The same boy who had watched, with blue eyes, as Vic pressed the blade to his own wrist and sliced it open.

Once he had passed the boy, he found himself unable to let it go. Paranoia filled him. Would the boy tell someone? Would everyone find out? Would Jaime find out? Would Jaime tell Mike?

Vic couldn’t even imagine having to show his brother the cuts and scars that twisted themselves up his arm like some morbid version of artwork. The jagged mutilation caused by his own hand. The disappointment etched across his own flesh, blood, and bone.

Finally, taking a deep breath and willing his lead feet to walk, Vic slowly approached the boy and stood over him for quite some time. The boy ignored the shadow from Vic’s form cascading across his text and continued to read, quite content. Vic made an interrupting noise.

The boy looked up.

“Uh… we need to talk,” Vic said. His mouth was dry, and his legs shook a little from the nerves that wouldn’t subside. He took a seat on the bench beside the boy.

The boy made a noise of accord. “Probably.”

“Look, what you saw in the bathroom… it wasn’t what it looked like.” And Vic didn’t even know what words were tumbling out of his voice at this point. All he knew was that he had to get this boy with the pulsating blue eyes to stop looking at him like _that_. Like Vic had done something wrong like shot somebody or robbed a liquor store or swallowed a handful of pills.

“You mean you weren’t hurting yourself?” the boy asked.

“Can’t we just forget the whole thing?”

The boy chewed on his lip, and Vic tried not to think how cute that actually looked. Because, honestly, the boy was handsome. His long black hair blew with the wind and spilled down his face in wispy strands. His facial structure was smooth and rounded, and his eyes- Vic could swim in his eyes. It was a refreshing nosedive into ocean waters that Vic couldn’t wade in much longer. Not without drowning, at least.

“I want a favor.” He suddenly sat up much straighter, and Vic’s heart plummeted to his stomach.

“W-what?”

“I want you to stop.”

…Vic blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, wondering if this was a dream, wondering if it was that easy, wondering if the boy in front of him was real. “What do you mean?”

“Stop cutting,” he said as though it were simple. “Stop cutting, and I won’t tell anyone.”

“How will you know?”

The boy’s smile was sly. “We’ll keep in touch.”

“Isn’t there an easier way--” Vic began, but he was interrupted.

“Look, you wanted my silence, and I want your word. Do we have a deal?”

Vic nodded and held out his hand. “My name’s Vic, by the way.”

“Kellin.” The boy nodded. “Kellin Quinn.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Vic wondered if this was the name of the devil reincarnated. Because, right now, Vic was sure he was in hell. He thought of the blade inside his pocket and how tempting it would be to run it across his smooth wrist and watch the blood boil to the top. Watch his problems dissipate in a single drop of red.

“How will we stay in touch?” asked Vic.

Kellin peeled a piece of paper off the corner of his textbook and scribbled something in small and loopy writing. He stood up, slamming his book shut, and hoisting his bag over his shoulders. Handing the paper to Vic, he smiled chipper. “See you tomorrow.”

And Vic looked on the paper, feeling as though a fragile glass pane of his life had just shattered. On the paper was an address and a time: _117 Carnot Avenue. 3:00._

 

  
II.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic wallpaper and dead linoleum that squeaked under his shoes. He had been pacing in the hallway for the better part of the night, strategically dodging nurses and doctors and gurneys that had all passed his way at some point in the other. Now Wednesday, Frank Iero had nearly been at the hospital for twenty-hours, and it showed. His eyes were ringed deep with sleep, his face was gaunt and pale and looked yellow under the sharp fluorescent lighting of the hospital. His body was shaking and running on pure caffeine alone. Discarded paper cups lay beside the chair he had fruitlessly abandoned.

The nurses had not yet admitted him to see Jamia, yet. They told him her condition was not yet stable enough, and that made Frank wonder what sort of condition she was in, in the first place. Surely, it couldn’t be that bad. His mind kept wandering to worst-case scenarios, and the young man tried to convince himself he was just being paranoid.

“Frank, there you are!” Someone panted, and Frank looked to see Bob Bryar, red-faced and sweaty as though he had run through the parking lot and up several flights of stairs to make it here. Then again, he probably had. “H-how is she?”

“They won’t let me see her,” Frank growled.

“H-have they said anything?”

Frank sat down and put his head in his hands. “Just that her condition isn’t stable. Fuck, Bob, what does that mean?”

“It means someone got her good.” And Bob handed Frank a newspaper and another cup of coffee that the younger was much grateful for. He skimmed down the column.

“Who would hurt her?” he whispered. “Fuck, who would kill these people?!”

“A sick bastard,” was all Bob could respond back because he didn’t have an answer. No one did, and that made Frank nauseous.

“Bob, what if… what if she--” But Frank couldn’t even finish his sentence. He choked up, and tears trickled down his face, dampening the sallow skin until Bob pulled him into a tight embrace and patted his back.

“Don’t talk like that, Frankie. She’ll be okay. _You’ll_ be okay.”

Frank sniffled and wiped his nose against Bob’s shirt, but the older man didn’t even snap at him or say anything of the matter. Instead, he held Frank close in that diminutive hospital hallway.

“B-bob?” Frank hiccupped. “I want to see the lead investigator for this case. I want to talk to him.”

 

III.

 

He was immersed in an ocean of cotton, crisp linen, and what smelled like dryer sheets. He buried himself deeper and deeper into the chrysalis of warmth and velvety smells and soft fabric beneath his cheek, nestling him, coaxing him, cocooning him. Through closed lids, he could see the brightness of the sun overflowing through the single window in his bedroom, and the brightness made him see pink even through closed eyes. But he could feel himself falling back to sleep, closer to the edge of relaxation until a shout awoke him.

“Jon?! Jon, oh my god, Jon!”

Jon had nearly forgotten Spencer had spent Tuesday night at his place, too, too preoccupied in a wonderful dream he had been having that had involved Cassie and an empty bar and a lot of flexibility on both their parts….

“Mmpgh… what?” he mumbled into his pillow, already missing the sleep he was not getting.

“Jon.” The sound of Spencer running up the stairs pattered through the little hallway, and soon he was at the threshold. Shirtless and in a pair of low-riding jeans. His hair was damp and a towel was slung over his left shoulder. Jon tried to ignore the coagulation of phosphenes around Spencer’s head in light of the sun’s beams as they ran a circular halo around his head and made the boy look more appealing than Cassie in his dream…. “Jon, the paper came.”

“I didn’t even know I subscribed to a paper,” muttered Jon.

Spencer ignored him and took a seat on the side of the bed that still held an imprint of his body upon the mattress. He sank into it. “ _…found dead in the city…._ Jon, I knew Greta. She was Brendon’s best friend.”

“Who’s Brendon?”

“Brendon Urie. The kid who plays acoustic shows at the bar when you’re working.”

“The kid with the awesome pipes?” Jon was slowly regaining some consciousness, but he still needed a cup of coffee.

“Fuck, Jon.” Spencer ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he could use some coffee, too. He was jittery and shaking, and bobbing the bed up-and-down with his antics. Jon took this as a sign to sit up. “I _knew_ her. There’s a serial killer on the loose. Fuck, Jon, am _I_ going to die?!”

“No, Spence,” Jon said dully, “you’re not going to die.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I wouldn’t let anyone kill you. You know that.” Jon finally sat up from his comfort and slipped on a pair of his slippers before padding out the door, a fidgety Spencer following in his wake like an abandoned puppy.

“How can you be so calm at a time like this?”

“Because I haven’t had my coffee yet,” Jon admitted through a garbled yawn.

“People are dying out there. We don’t have time for coffee!”

Jon lightly pushed Spencer onto a stool at the island and gave him a pat on the bare shoulder. “You’re not saving the world, Spencer. There are investigators working on it. This will be water under the bridge next week.”

“Jon,” Spencer whispered under the bubbling of the noisy coffee maker, “I’m scared.”

Jon exhaled. “Don’t be, Spence. You’re with me.”

He leaned forward to engulf his friend in a hug, feeling the velvety expanse of skin across his back, the rough contours of muscle hidden below the planes, the irregular course of his spine leading down to where his jeans sat loosely on his hips. Jon tried not to look down there as he smelled the fruity shampoo of Spencer’s hair and the musky scent of aftershave across his smooth jaw.

Pulling away quickly, Jon excused himself to rifle through his cupboards for a mug.

“Don’t be a hero, Spence,” said Jon, his face buried in his cupboard as he tried to think of Cassie. Pretty, blonde Cassie from work who would bend over the pool table in an instant if he asked….

“I’m going to visit Brendon tomorrow,” Spencer decided. “You’re coming with me.”

“I work tomorrow, Spence.”

“We’ll go before you work. I’ll skiv class. Please, Jon?”

Jon made the mistake of staring at Spencer and seeing his puppy eyes wide and sad and the clearest blue Jon could ever remember them being before. He sighed as he set the mugs down to the counter with a sharp clank. “Fine.”

“And Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I spend the night here again?”

Jon swore Spencer Smith would be the death of him.

 

IV.

 

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty’s back from the ball.”

“You’re not funny!”

“Never said I was trying to be, Princess.”

“I’ll give you a fucking princess. I’ll shove a tiara up--” The sounds of retching cut the other boy off as the gags echoed off the tiled walls of the bathroom, the acoustics unattractive as Pete Wentz leaned against the threshold and watched his roommate spill the contents of last night into the toilet. His arms were wrapped firmly around the porcelain; and as his head resurfaced, he had a faint hint of green on his olive skin.

Pete frowned. “You okay, Gabe?”

“I’m fine,” he spat, “Some kid picked me up and brought me home with him.”

“That was William. He called Ryan last night. What happened?”

But Gabe was adamant to keep what had happened last night between him and… William, he supposed, but that wasn’t by choice. Besides, it wasn’t like he would ever see the kid again. Last night had been a one time thing. It would never happen again. Gabe would be more careful. If he ever saw that fucker again he would… but Gabe frowned when he realized he had no memory of what the other man had looked like that night.

All that came to mind was a sinister smirk and murky shadows swarming around him and a sense of vertigo.

Promptly, Gabe threw up again.

“Nothing happened. Just got drunk. Wandered away from the party.”

Pete’s voice was apologetic. “Gabe, you’re turning into your father.”

“Fuck off!”

“Did you even thank William?”

“Yes!” insisted Gabe before faltering under Pete’s fierce gaze. “I-- maybe?”

“Gabe.”

“Fine, no, I didn’t thank the kid. What’s the problem? He’s not my fucking knight in shining armor. I’m never going to see the kid again.”

Pete leered. “Yes, you are.”

“Pete.” Gabe rubbed his temples. “It’s too early for the mind games.”

“It’s not a mind game,” said Pete innocently. “It’s just, well, aren’t you wearing his clothes?”

Gabe let his head fall back into the toilet bowl with a string of curses and sounds of heaving echoing around the bathroom. Chortling, Pete left him to his own misery.

 

V.

 

The September wind picked up and blew down the little hollow of Cooperstown, sending with it flurries of leaves and stray papers, damp from the morning dew. By the ocean there was a little niche in the cliff, only a five minute climb from the edge of the sand to where the cave sat on the ledge. It was rather small, large enough for maybe two people at best, with serrated rocks around the edge and tufts of grass growing sporadically throughout the place.

He laid on the rough sand, scratching at it with his left hand and feeling the coarse grains fall under his fingernails. His face was red from the rough winds that had encompassed the tiny hole and damp from tears that had long since dissipated. Sniffling, he tried to will himself to cry again, to feel something in this apathetic world, but he was drained. Alex Gaskarth was dead to the world.

It was a place he and Jack had found years ago when they had first become friends, and it soon became a secret place for the two of them. Dubbed the Cubby Hole, Alex and Jack would run to this place when things became to much for them or to drink or even to smoke a few blunts they’d rolled. But this wasn’t a jovial time for Alex now; rather, this was a time for heartbreak.

He pulled a pack of Camels from his pocket and lit one up, savoring the tobacco flavor on his tongue and enjoying the way his worries seemed to dissipate with the smoke rolling off the tip of the cigarette.

There was a rustling sound from the mouth of the cave and Alex raised his head, squinting through the miasma of smoke to see the silhouette of a lanky boy climbing on through. Clambering up onto the coarse flat planed ledge, Jack heaved a heavy sigh and took a seat. Silence hung fragile in the air around them.

“Been looking for you,” Jack finally whispered.

Alex shrugged and inhaled a deep hit of nicotine.

“Your mom’s worried,” he said, and it sounded so weird to not have that sentence phrased into one of his lame and infamous jokes.

“I’ve been here,” said Alex dully as though this was an excuse enough for his disappearance.

“Alex, you have to go home.”

“It’s not home without him,” Alex countered back, trying to ignore the tears welling in his eyes. Trying not to think of the scene he had run away from last night. The pulsating blue lights of the ambulance. Stocky police officers bumbling towards him. And his mother, in the midst of it all, screaming her son’s name over-and-over again.

“Don’t be selfish, Al. Your mom needs you.”

And finally the tears fell. They dripped down his cheeks and dribbled down his jaw, engulfing Alex in a pit of his own depression. His body quaked with his sobs, and he shook as he snubbed out his cigarette and curled up in the fetal position. “He’s gone, Jack. _He’s gone_.”

“Alex….” Jack’s eyes were sad and honest and big and hollow, almost a mirror to Alex’s empty ones. “Alex, you’re okay.”

Curling up beside his friend, he threw an arm around his waist, almost mimicking their position from the other night when they had been tucked in Jack’s bed. Safe and protected from the world outside. The harsh world that bit and ate and clawed at their lives, that threatened to tear them apart. That sent Alex to the Cubby Hole and Jack chasing after him.

“H-he’s dead, Jack. My brother’s dead!” Squirming in Jack’s grip, Alex buried his face into his friend’s chest, moistening his shirt dramatically. But Jack didn’t seem to mind; instead, he hugged Alex tighter and tighter, only then realizing how dirty and sticky the New Found Glory shirt was in the humid Cooperstown air.

Jack let Alex cry for sometime because that was what best friends do.

“I-I want to see him again,” Alex cried pitifully.

Jack only gripped Alex tighter. “You can’t, Al. You can’t.”

“I want to tell him I’m sorry!” Alex’s screams echoed in the Cubby Hole, and it sounded like thousands of voices all crying for Tom Gaskarth.

“Alex, it’s okay.” Jack kissed his forehead and cradled him in his arms. “You’re okay, Alex. Everything’s going to be okay.”

But they both knew that was a lie.

 

VI.

 

“Yes, Brendon, I’ll be back soon.”

A pause.

“No, Brendon, I won’t forget the coffee.”

Another pause.”

“ _Yes, Brendon, it will only be another fifteen minutes._ ”

Patrick promptly hung up his mobile and jammed it in his pocket after a rather invigorating conversation with his roommate. Though, it wasn’t necessarily his fault. Brendon was still stricken with grief over lovely Greta’s horrifying death from the papers. And Patrick had been nothing but eager to mill around for the depressed boy, doing his errands and dropping the world for him.

He was in line at the campus coffee shop where it was rather busy and crowded for a Wednesday night. Patrick supposed papers were due out tomorrow in many classes as most of the clientele were sleepy-eyed upperclassmen clutching laptops to them and stifling yawns as they rambled off their orders. He felt out of place as though no one could perceive the problems that had weighed themselves on his shoulders. As though no one else knew what death felt like. Or what a grieving friend looked like.

(Waking up from a troubling night sleep, with dreams of death and pain, Patrick found himself sweaty and nauseous that Wednesday morning. The alarm clock blared in lively red numbers that it was four a.m. Patrick groaned and sat up, deciding to relieve his bladder before he fell back to sleep.

He tried not to think of his dream as he made the short trek to the bathroom. The way some masked killer had murdered himself. The way his body had laid there, into the cold night, with not a single person around to mourn his loss. Then again, Patrick supposed, those were his anxieties talking again. The anxieties that he had no friends and was worthless. Common enemies that tortured Patrick on a daily basis.

Stepping inside the tiled bathroom, Patrick noticed something black and lumpy on the floor that nearly made him relieve his bladder right then and there. Quickly he flicked on the lights and almost let out a sigh of relief when he saw the shape of his roommate balled up and snoring softly. A bottle of vodka, nearly empty, laid to his side.

Patrick’s heart broke. So this was what his sober friend had been reduced to (the very same sober friend who had vowed he would not ever drink, in risk of becoming an alcoholic like a pained lover’s father had been ….) passing out on the bathroom floor next to an empty bottle and a pool of his own vomit. Patrick didn’t know whether to feel shame or pity for his heartbroken friend.

“Bren.” Patrick crouched down and roused the sleeping boy. Immediately his nightmare seemed to evaporate from his mind as Brendon smacked his lips in his sleep and tried to bat away Patrick’s advances. “Bren, wake up.”

“N-no,” a cry emitted from his raspy throat, burnt out from the alcohol into nothing but misconstrued sentences. “P-please, Greta….”

Not having the heart to wake him from his indigence, Patrick scooped up his friend, with mild difficulty as Brendon was much larger than his scrawny self, he carried his friend to his bed and tucked him in, administering a kiss to his forehead as though that were enough to dispel his nightmares.

As though it were ever enough.)

Now, Patrick felt more mature than the upperclassmen around him. It gave him a strange sense of superiority he had never known before. Because Patrick had always been second-best to anybody. It was something that came with the package. Troubled thoughts and a matching self-esteem. Not that anyone else would ever grace him with such honesty.

“Excuse me, are you in line?” a voice spoke that tickled the hairs on the nape of his neck.

Slowly Patrick turned around to answer the man but he was frozen in his tracks as he did. As he looked upon a face he hadn’t looked properly upon in years.

“P-Patrick?!” the other boy exclaimed, eyes wide and a toothy smile on his face.

“P-pete?” Patrick squeaked before he ran.

He ran and he ran until his lungs gave out and his sides screamed for mercy and his legs were sore. He ran and forgot that coffee for him and Brendon. He ran from Pete Wentz, the ghost of childhood past.

 

VII.

 

A little ways away from Pete and Patrick, sitting at a table in the coffee shop, with his chair leaned on its two hind legs, Gerard Way sat, sucking a straw to quell his curiosity and idly stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon. Why he had agreed to meet with some kid stricken with grief over his girlfriend when he had an investigation to lead was beyond him.

His partner, Ray, had asked the same thing but had reluctantly agreed to go over the forensics of the case to continue pursuing the perpetrator. Secretly, Gerard had hoped this was some twisted form of hazing that had been taken a step too far. Then he could retire to his Monroeville apartment and lay awake with a drawing and the sound of gunshots ringing in the too silent place.

But nothing was ever that easy.

At last, a younger boy took a seat across from him. He was short and small with pale skin and tired eyes as though he had been up for days on end with insomnia ringing on the other line. His cheeks were hollow, and his actions seemed delayed yet very pronounced as he moved around to sip at his frappucino.

“Mr. Iero?”

“Cut the crap,” he said sardonically. “I’m Frank.”

Gerard fidgeted. “Okay, Frank, why did you want to see me?”

“Why do you think?”

Gerard hated his cheekiness. “Because your girlfriend’s been attacked, and you want some answers.”

“Damn right I want some answers.” He smacked his hand against the table clumsily. Coffee spluttered to the glass tabletop. “And I want to be the one to help you.”

“…excuse me?”

Gerard had never seen someone as ambitious as the kid sitting across from him.

“I want in on the case.”

“That’s unorthodox, and I can’t allow it,” he retaliated firmly, gaining some leverage back as he remembered the badge inside his pocket and the authority behind it.

“I don’t care. That’s my… girlfriend. I’m a psychology major; I can help profile the criminal. Because, whoever it is, this is no hazing gone wrong.”

Gerard almost lost his footing as he wondered how Frank could have read his mind, but he shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. That’s extremely unprofessional. I can’t have an innocent civilian put in harm’s way.”

“I won’t be on the battlefield,” said Frank, calculatedly. “I’ll be more of a behind-the-scenes guy.”

“No,” Gerard reiterated wondering who the hell Frank Iero thought he was.

Moodily, Frank snatched his coffee and stood up. As he left the shop, he muttered under his breath, “This isn’t over, Detective Way.”

Gerard put his head in his hands once Frank was out of the campus shop. This was going to be a long case, indeed.

#### Thursday

 

VIII.

 

Brendon Urie had always been known for doing stupid things. For being impulsive and never thinking things through when he turned in his tests or essays. For falling in love with Ryan Ross and not knowing how to fall out of love. However, out of all the stupid things Brendon Urie could have done, he had to do the stupidest and try to fill the emptiness of Greta Salpeter’s loss away with booze.

He sat, curled up on the couch, with a glass of water (because Patrick had failed to bring back the coffee) and a box of tissues that he had abandoned in use of his shirt sleeve that had dried snot and tears on it and was extremely unattractive.

In all his despair, Brendon almost forgot about Ryan Ross.

Almost.

There was still a part of him that yearned for Ryan to be here. That yearned for the boy to sit on the couch and wrap his arms around him, kiss his forehead and assure him that things would be okay. That every little thing would be alright. But Ryan was gone from his life, probably forever. And in all his gloom, Brendon decided it was his own fault.

He had let Ryan go. In the end, Brendon had no one to blame but himself.

“Brendon.” Patrick returned from his class (Brendon had skipped). “Brendon, are you awake yet?”

“Yeah,” the boy croaked. “Unfortunately.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I need coffee.”

“I didn’t get any coffee.”

“I know, but you promised!” Brendon sounded like a brat. He knew he did, but he was sick of never getting what he wanted. Ryan, gone. Greta, dead. And him, alone.

“Brendon, I-I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Patrick heaved a sigh and sat down. Instinctively, he put an arm around Brendon and, he allowed himself to be pulled into a platonic embrace. Even if it wasn’t Ryan, it still felt nice. “Do you remember that kid I told you about?”

“The one you were in love with, when you were younger?”

“Sort of.” Patrick fiddled with his free hand. “I was more in love with him than he was with me. The one from Chicago that had the huge smile and the poetry and the riddles a-and the… suicidal thoughts.”

“I remember you mentioned him once or twice,” Brendon said knowing he was lying. Patrick must’ve mentioned this boy a thousand and one times. The way he laughed, rich and real that echoed down the coarse Chicago streets. The way they had hated each other when they met. The way he started writing him notes all the time, addressed: _Dear You. Xo, Me._

“W-well, I saw him today, again. I saw Pete in the coffee shop.”

Brendon perked up almost forgetting he was sad. “You saw him? He’s here, in Cooperstown?”

“Apparently.”

“What did you say?!”

“Nothing,” he admitted sheepishly. “I ran.”

“Why?”

“Because this isn’t a romance movie, Brendon. We kindled out. There was no saving us. We went our separate ways, and that’s the way the story ends. There’s no rewriting it.”

Brendon made a noise in the back of his throat of irritation at his friend. It wasn’t fair the way love worked. The way it could burn so bright on some days only to bring you into darkness the next. It was like being afraid of the dark, love was.

Suddenly, there was knocking on the door; and Patrick disentangled himself from Brendon to answer it. The other boy saw flashbacks from yesterday, when someone had knocked on the door and brought Brendon news that very well might have ruined his life.

He thought of calling Ryan, of Ryan’s number tucked inside his contact list without the heart next to the name but with all the affection. He thought of calling his ex-lover and crying to him over Greta, but then Brendon remembered with greatest sympathy that Ryan would never answer any calls Brendon sent his way.

“Brendon, it’s for you!” Patrick called from the vestibule again. Like déjà vu.

With shaking legs that felt like lead, Brendon made his way to the little hallway and to the open threshold where a handsome man stood before it in plain clothes. He was tall with chestnut locks that fell haphazardly onto his face. He had high cheekbones and eyes so blue the Pacific would be jealous.

He extended a hand to Brendon. “Hi, I’m Greta’s cousin. I understood you knew her, fairly well?”

Brendon nodded.

“Brendon, I’m Dallon Weekes.”

 

IX.

 

The humidity of Cooperstown finally peaked, and a storm rolled in to dampen the town even more. It rolled and thundered its way throughout the town bringing with it an onslaught of rain that nearly flooded basements. The wind picked up and scattered neatly raked leaf piles and sent the _Monroeville City and District Gazette_ into the void of the night.

He trooped up the garden walkway to his house, drenched and dirty and impure in the shirt that was sticking to his body. He had been forced into a shower, and his hair was no longer greasy or matted with grime. In fact, besides the New Found Glory shirt, Alex was fairly presentable.

Knocking on the door with a quailing hand, it took a few minutes before someone answered it, having not heard it over the roars of thunder that echoed throughout the inky sky. Finally, though, his mother stood at the threshold with red and puffy eyes and puffier cheeks from crying at the thought of losing two sons in one day.

“Oh, Alex,” she broke down into tears at the sight of her son and engulfed him in a tight embrace. He stood there, arms by his side, and limp before he, too, started crying onto the shoulder of his mother and tightening the embrace.

From the sidewalk, Jack watched with a sedated and pained smile on his face.

And from the trees, someone else watched, too.

 

 


	5. Six of Cups

I.

William felt sick to his stomach all day Thursday. And Wednesday. And since he dragged a drunken, sexually assaulted Gabriel Saporta home. Since he cleaned up Gabe’s vomit and tucked him into bed and made sure he didn’t choke on his own puke in his sleep and lent him clothes and got yelled at for it. William felt sick, and he hadn’t slept. It shone on his face with deep bags across his eyes and languid movements as he failed to even make coffee for himself and instead moped in front of the television set, the grainy resolution doing nothing to subdue his thoughts.

Not even a trip to the Pacific could fix William, now. He was beyond a vantage point. Besides, the Pacific Ocean had started it all in the first place. That, and thinking such a love could exist as the tide against the shore.

He wasn’t sure why he felt as sick as he did, either. It was a question he thought about a lot as he had skipped class the past two days and was wondering what he would tell his lit professor. William hadn’t even the motivation to type up his short story that was sitting on his computer, unfinished and a perfect summary of everything William was feeling.

Maybe he felt sick because this chance of redemption had failed him.

At that moment, Ryan walked in to interrupt William’s self-loathing. He had been at class turning in his own literature paper.

“Professor keeps asking where you’re at, Beckett,” Ryan told him, shoving a piece of paper under his nose that William accepted, begrudgingly. “And I’m sick of collecting your assignments. I don’t know what happened between you and Gabe Saporta, but I’m sick of it.”

“Ryan?” William’s voice sounded small and meek under the crackling of the television. “Do you remember Tom?”

“William, the past is the past. Let it go. It wasn’t your fault.”

But William was sick of letting other people tell him what to do. Instead, he said, “I could have saved him, Ryan. I could have stopped him from choking on his own puke. I could’ve had I been being a good friend that night instead of a bastard.”

“William.” Ryan took a seat on the arm of his couch and awkwardly put a hand on William’s shoulder before withdrawing it quickly. “Sometimes things just happen in life, and we have to learn to accept the cards we were dealt.”

“And why do I always get the shitty deal?”

“Because you have to learn your poker face,” Ryan said solemnly, and William almost desperately wanted to read one of his essays just to watch him stitch pieces and strings of words and thoughts together that William could never have dreamt up in a hundred years.

“I killed Tom, Ryan.”

“You didn’t. Alcohol killed Tom.” He paused for a second. “And didn’t you just save Gabe Saporta? _The_ Gabe Saporta?”

“Yeah,” he muttered darkly, “and he had a funny way of thanking me.”

“Not your fault if the bastard’s unappreciative. He was a kept boy, growing up. Wouldn’t know a good thing if it came up and slit his throat.”

“You’re morbid.”

“And you’re depressing, but I still keep you around.”

“It’s not depression,” William said but not to much avail, “it’s reality.”

“Look, Bill,” Ryan interrupted the gloomy train-of-thought that kept knocking, “so maybe life hands you a shitty deck. There’s always a road to redemption. There’s always decks being reshuffled.”

“Yeah? And what’s the trick to that?”

“Simple.” Ryan’s smile was Cheshire. “Don’t play a jack if you’ve already got a king.”

And as Ryan walked away, William felt much more confused than he had earlier. Except now, he was stuck with card images in his head that finally pushed him into a fitful sleep.

II.

 

_117 Carnot Avenue._

Looking up from the paper, Vic wondered if he was at the right place. It was three o’clock, and he was standing in front of a spacious vicarage, painted a deep ivy green, with a wraparound porch and a newly-shingled roof and a freshly mowed lawn and naked, skeletal trees that all had neat little piles of multicolored leaves raked beneath them. Vic was about to turn back from the daunting image when he noticed Kellin sitting on top of the roof, a book in his hand, and one of his legs swinging from the edge.

Suddenly, Vic didn’t really want to be there. He would much prefer to be at home, where at least he could be with Mike. And Jaime was over. The three of them could be playing video games on Vic’s shitty Nintendo64 and laughing and swearing and chucking empty plastic cups drained of soda at each other. He could very well be there, but instead he was here. With Kellin Quinn.

Vic approached the residence with shaking legs. Already he had broken their truce.

(After staying out late, wandering around the park on the outskirts of Calderstones and musing to himself how shitty his luck was, Vic came home to find the place empty. Mike was gone, no doubt working a double shift again, no matter how many times Vic had told him that two jobs and double shifts were not the solution to their problems. No matter how many times Mike had smiled at him, told him to shut up and stay in school, before running off to his next job. As though he liked going there. Then again, Vic thought, anything would be better than sitting at home and watching their mother waste away.

She was so thin now she looked like a puppet, and her motions were of one two. As though some strings were pulling her frail and bony arms up because certainly she hadn’t the muscle left to do it. Vic remembered reading about feeding tubes in Jaime’s medical textbook, and he wondered whether or not that would save their mother, wasting away in the living room. She was shriveled and shrunken, hair was falling out that shouldn’t be falling out in only her forties. Her skin was yellowed as though the nicotine she smoked was rubbing off on her, yellowing her and flaking her away just like the wallpaper in the house. But Vic knew that wasn’t the case. Jaime had explained it to him, one day, when the two had been at the park just to escape the hell that Vic’s house had become. He had explained that she didn’t get enough sunlight or VitaminC. That she was wasting away right before their eyes. That the addiction was eating her whole.

Vic heard a voice from inside the living room. And it was a voice that made his blood freeze and his movements jolt to a stop. It was her dealer. It was Obbo. “Anytime, Jo. Anything for you.”

She was buying. She had called Obbo over, and she would surely be kicked out of the methadone clinic this time. There was no mistaking it. She would use, and she would overdose, and she would die. Withdrawal wouldn’t kill her; heroin would.

He heard Obbo shuffling around in the living room, and Vic took that as his opportunity to run. To dart into his room and shut the door, expertly locking it. Safe, Vic fished out his blade from his book and gave himself a cut on his wrist. It was deep and red and dripped down, and still Vic felt nothing.)

Kellin noticed Vic and shouted down, retrieving him from his black thoughts. “Just climb up, here.”

With slight difficulty, as Vic had never particularly excelled at athletics, he managed to climb up the wraparound porch, mud smearing from his raggedy shoes onto the whitewashed banners, but Kellin didn’t say a thing. Finally, Vic plopped down next to Kellin and suddenly felt very small in his loose, baggy clothes he wore to keep the cuts hidden from view. He felt very small in his skin and wondered if this was what his mother felt like on a daily basis.

Kellin set his book down, and Vic couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You like _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_?”

The other boy shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m more into horror stories.”

“Why?”

He shrugged again. “They’re more exciting. More thrilling.”

“They’re not very romantic,” Vic pointed out.

“Not everything is sunshine,” Kellin said and Vic couldn’t help but smile at that because that’s how he felt some days. “Besides, this book isn’t very romantic, either.”

“No, but it’s as close as you can get nowadays.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, on top of the roof of the old vicarage. The wind rustled their hairs and blew at the pages of the book, leafing through them as though it wanted to witness the leftover remnants of romance in today’s age. Finally, though, Kellin faced him fully and properly and eyed him with that stare that made Vic feel like he had shot somebody or robbed a liquor store or overdosed on heroin.

“Show me your wrist.”

With trembling fingers, Vic pulled back the sleeve of his hoodie, exposing the fresh cuts to the sharp and bitter wind that made them sting. He looked away from Kellin and down at the shingles around him, and down at the rain gutter where sodden leaves and cigarette butts had banked against. “D-don’t tell anyone,” Vic begged.

But Kellin didn’t say anything. Rather, he grabbed Vic’s wrist in a gentle grip and surveyed the fresh cuts that ran up his arm in coarse patterns. He released his wrist, all in a single second, and stared sadly at Vic. “You cut.”

“I-I’m sorry. Don’t tell anyone.”

Kellin sighed, “This was never about telling anybody. I would never. It’s your secret to tell, Vic. I just-- I really want you to stop.”

“Why? We’re strangers to each other. I don’t have to be your problem.”

“No,” Kellin smiled lopsidedly, “but I want you to be.”

“…why?”

“Because I don’t like people hurting themselves,” he said darkly. “I hate it as much as I hate people hurting others.” Then, as negatively as the atmosphere had been punctured, it was replaced by a lighter tone. “What do you major in?”

Vic was taken aback. “M-music. Uh, you?”

“Law,” Kellin said darkly. “ _Daddy_ wants me to be a lawyer. Personally, I don’t see the pleasure in lying and cheating for liars and cheaters.”

“Then why not swap majors?”

“Because it’s his money. His cash, his choices.”

Vic had never heard anything so absurd, but he didn’t push Kellin. After all, Vic had his own family situation, and any outsider would agree it’s more fucked-up than an overbearing father.

“Do you write your own songs?”

“Sort of….” Vic didn’t think much of his lyrics. In fact, he was embarrassed by the songs and how they were all about his self-harm and his problems and his whining and his depression.

“That’s cool. When I was younger, I used to want to be a rock star,” Kellin chuckled, “I suppose we all want to be. Some of us just don’t have the balls to go after it.”

“I don’t know what I want to be,” Vic admitted, “I used to think about playing my songs to people on a stage. But I could never.”

“What if those songs changed people’s lives, though?” asked Kellin. “What if those songs save people’s lives?”

But Vic couldn’t think of a single song that ever changed his life, so he explained this to Kellin who made a disapproving noise.

“Not one song ever changed your life? Or saved you?”

No, Vic thought gloomily, but he wished something would.

 

III.

 

Alex did not return to the Cubby Hole the next day. Rather, he remained holed up in his bedroom mourning his brother. After the autopsy was finalized and the coroner’s report published, they would bury him. They would bury him tomorrow. Alex would bury his brother on a Friday.

He hated those words in his head. The words that reminded him over-and-over again that his brother was dead, that his brother was being buried, that his brother would never be here to squabble with him over New Found Glory shirts again. Speaking of which, Alex had shoved the unwashed shirt into the topmost drawer and tried to ignore it’s presence taking up the room like an omen.

Jack called several times, but Alex didn’t want to answer it.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone, really.

His feelings for Jack would have to be put on hold. Whatever they were, it wasn’t the end of the world. Not when there was a hole in Alex’s heart that would never be filled again, not while the presence of him had evaporated so quickly from the air as though he never existed at all.

Alex held back a sob. His throat was sore, and he was sick of crying. Sick of pitying himself. He just wanted to sink into oblivion, to simply cease to exist, as though that would solve all his problems. All the pain and suffering in the world. All the confusion about Jack Barakat.

There was a knock on his bedroom door. “Alex?” It was his mother.

“Come in,” he croaked into the room, his voice sounded scratchy and ripped and unfamiliar.

“Oh, Alex,” she cooed when she walked in and took a seat beside him. Her eyes were still freshly puffy from tears, and her cheeks still were moist from crying. But she put on a brave face for her son. Sitting on the edge of his bed with him, she cradled him close to her and kissed the top of his head. “Be strong for me tomorrow, okay?”

He nodded hollowly.

“I know you and Tom had a fight,” she said, and it stung Alex the way she tried to put it so delicately, “but he loved you, Alex. And he forgave you. No sense sitting in here, missing out on your life, when you’re very much alive, dear.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I mean it,” she said sternly, “I don’t want you holed up in here, ignoring Jack and Rian. They care about you, and they’ll be right beside you tomorrow, so don’t be thinking you’re alone in this world, Alex.”

“I know, Mom, I’ve got you.”

Mrs. Gaskarth smiled again, fondly, and tousled Alex’s hair. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t even try to stop them. Instead, she just exited his room leaving a ghosted presence in Alex, much like Tom had.

 

IV.

“So you’re here, why?” asked Brendon, trying hard not to be rude to the stranger sitting on his couch, sipping a cup of tea, and not wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket (Brendon stared at his snotted pajama sleeve and quickly hid it behind his back, sheepishly).

“Sorry,” Dallon said, “I’m just here to ask if you’d like to help me make the preparations for Greta’s funeral. I’m in charge of it, but- as embarrassed as I am to say this- I knew her very little. Not as well as you, I suppose.”

“Then why are you in charge?”

“I’m Greta’s only close relation left.”

“Greta had a whole family!”

Dallon grimaced. “No, Brendon. She didn’t. When she came out, no one was really accepting of having a lesbian in the family. They disowned her.”

“What?!”

Dallon went on, “She lived with me for a few months because no one else would take her in. I finally suggested she come to Cooperstown University and make her own way in the world.”

“So you’re in charge of Greta’s funeral?”

“I am an undertaker, yes.”

Brendon swore he had never met anybody more morbid in his entire life.

Dallon pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, offering one to Brendon as the smoke swirled around the room and fizzed up to the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He offered one to Brendon.

Ryan had never liked Brendon smoking. It had reminded him too much of the rank smell that had been his house when his alcoholic father had smoked. He claimed he had hated kissing the taste of ashtrays. But Ryan wasn’t there, Brendon realized, because if Ryan was here then it would mean he gave a damn about Brendon Urie. Trembling, Brendon took one and lit it up with shaking hands.

“What do you need to know?” he finally asked.

“Not here,” Dallon said with a sidelong look at Patrick, “Can you come by my office tomorrow? Here’s my card.”

He hand Brendon a business card with his name printed in neat typeset.

“Sure.” Then, daringly, Brendon asked, “Lunch date?”

Dallon chuckled, “Alright.”

“Where are you from, then?”

“Salt Lake City.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Brendon lied.

“It’s beautiful. The mountains…. You should take a train down with me sometime. I can show you where Greta lived. I think she’d like that.”

Brendon tried to think of Ryan, but he really couldn’t when Dallon’s cerulean eyes were looking at him in such a way that Brendon finally felt like he meant something to the world. “I think she’d love that.”

“One step at a time,” Dallon laughed, and it was a light sound like glass against rain that tinkled in the dormitory. It rang in Brendon’s ears, and he swore he couldn’t even remember what color Ryan’s eyes were or the scratchy sound of his voice in the early mornings.

 

V.

“How does a good looking guy, such as yourself, not have a girlfriend?”

A laugh. “Very easily.”

Challenge poured in her eyes. “Not the commitment type?”

“Nah.” Jon said, wiping a glass clean with a raggedy towel as he tended the bar at The Green Gentleman, the local Cooperstown bar. The ceiling fans above circulated the smoky air about, and the smell of tequila rose steadily from her breath. “Just haven’t found the right person yet, I guess.”

Cassie leaned forward on the stool, propping her elbows against the bar and leaning forward with pursed lips. “That’s hard to believe. You’re quite the catch, Jon.”

He laughed and placed the glass down. “That’ll be the day.”

The jukebox in the corner was playing some cozy eighties ballad that encompassed the entirety of The Green Gentleman and sent Cassie humming and bobbing her head until her blonde curls twisted around her neck like snakes. Jon remembered, from mass in Chicago, all about the temptation of the snake in the garden. Offhandedly, he wondered if her lips tasted as red as they looked, stained with her cherry lipstick.

“You’ve got to keep your options open,” she said, “The right girl could be sitting right in front of you, and you’d just blink.”

“Blink and wake up.”

She shoved him playfully, giggling, “Shut up. Not everything is a dream.”

“Most miracles are.”

“Stop being a skeptic. The color doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh?”

She giggled again, tipsy. “I’m serious. Good things happen to good people. You’re just not looking hard enough.”

“Love isn’t a scavenger hunt, Cassie.”

“No, but it’s grand when you finally find it.”

“Maybe,” he said with an air of defeated finality and leaned against the bar, himself, his hips pushing against the wood, “love doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, shut up.” She swished the olive from her glass and popped it into her mouth. Red lips rounded and quite like Eden. “There can be a fine line between love and romance. Like I said, you just have to look for it.”

Jon rolled his eyes and walked away to serve an elderly couple in the corner of the bar, out celebrating an anniversary.

It was very dear to Jon, the ideas of anniversaries and weddings and such. Of course, he hated ascribing the lifestyle to himself. Personally, he wasn’t a flowers-on-dates, till death do us part, or romantic candlelit dinners kind of guy. But he very much loved the idea of it. He had always just assumed his future would fall into that kind of routine. But here he was. Business school dropout. Bartender. Scraping by on the shoddy tips he got each night and the applause from his acoustic shows.

He returned to Cassie as Secondhand Serenade’s, ‘Fall For You’ rolled from the jukebox speakers.

He laughed, and she asked him why.

“Spencer dedicated this song to me,” he chuckled, “when he was drunk. It came on in the car.”

“That’s cute,” she commented.

He shrugged. “Spencer’s quirky.”

“Sounds like it.” She pursed her lips and leaned forward as far as her lithe body would allow, practically twisting in her chair to move as close to Jon as possible.

_But hold your breath._

Cassie licked her toxic red lips.

The color of her dress reminded Jon of Spencer’s eyes, but he tried to push his friend out of his mind. Lately, Spencer had occupied Jon’s thoughts for the better of the day, and it scared Jon that he had become so attached to the younger boy. Jon wasn’t one for attachments, even friendships. He was more of an animal lover than a people lover. It always made intimacy easier if it as unavailable.

Inside his head, he could see Spencer’s pink lips laughing instead of Cassie’s puckered red ones.

_Because tonight will be the night that I will fall for you._

“Jon?” she breathed out his name like a prayer. “I think tonight could be our night.”

“What do you mean?”

_Over again, don’t make me change my mind._

She made a noise of agitation but abandoned the sound as she leaned across the bar and smashed her lips to his under the neon lights that reflected off the beer and whiskey bottles on the shelf beside him. Down the bar, the elderly couple were toasting.

_I won’t live to see another day._

Cassie tasted like liquor and olives, and Jon crinkled his nose because he’d never been particularly fond of olives. But when she licked her tongue into his mouth and began exploring every single contour and crevice his mouth had to offer, well, Jon had to admit it was better than fretting over his best friend at home.

_You’re impossible to find…._

Meanwhile, in the threshold of The Green Gentleman, Spencer Smith looked on.

 

VI.

 

After much persuasion, Gabe finally trooped down to Abbotts Close, taking the long and winding road from Evertree Crescent to reach William Beckett’s dormitory. The building looked different in light of sobriety. It was old and dilapidated and in much need of remodeling, but Gabe didn’t think anything of it as it was from the Calderstones and as much was to be expected.  
He found William’s door with much difficulty and knocked three times before there was no answer and he turned to leave.

Finally, the squeaking of a door sounded behind him, and he turned to see the gangly form of William looking awkward and uncomfortable in the doorway. His jeans were riding low on his hips, and his shirt was too small and exposing a sliver of smooth skin on his stomach. Gabe tried not to gape.

“Can I help you?”

“Y-yeah,” Gabe stammered. He was nervous. Fuck, why was he nervous? He was Gabe Saporta: he was too rich to be nervous. “I’m here to thank you.”

“What?”

“For helping me out,” Gabe admitted and could feel the color rising to his cheeks. “Y-you didn’t have to do that for me. You could have- fuck- you could have left me.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” said William, softly.

And before he could stop it, Gabe bit out, “Why?”

William blinked, caught off guard. He finally sidled out of the dormitory and into the small hallway, looking too tall to be allowed. “Well, I mean, you needed help. I’m not going to watch someone suffer.”

“You could have just left me to die.”

William’s face hardened, and he whispered. “No, Gabe, I couldn’t have.”

“Why not?!”

William shrugged. “You don’t have to thank me, Gabe.”

Gabe never realized, throughout his whole hangover, how cute the blush hanging on William’s face was. Or how soft the texture of his mussed hair looked, tickling his jaw line. He never noticed how beautiful William looked in the cheap lighting.

“But I do,” he said firmly.

“You don’t.”

“I do, and I will. Y-you saved my life, William. Thank you.” Gabe smiled and without thinking, blurted out, “I want to take you out.”

“What?!” William’s face turned beet red.

Gabe nodded and continued, not even listening to the stream of words falling from his lips. “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And before William could even protest, Gabe was walking out into the starless night, feeling as though he’d just succumbed to the worst of all clichés.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, all he could think of was a hideous smirk and leering eyes. Lewd touches and harsh mouths. He blinked to dispel the images, seeing stars where there were none.

Miles away, sitting alone in a room where pictures of the Spanish boy hung, the devil placed his next victim on his list of things to do tonight….

 

#### Friday

 

VII.

 

The next morning, Patrick Stump found something disturbing in his mailbox.


	6. Love and Death in Theory

I.

 

It rained on Tom Gaskarth’s grave. The ink on the cards blurred. Daisies and freesias crumpled, and then fell apart. The wreath of roses at the base of the coffin decomposed and decayed. The rain flooded the dips at their feet and formed puddles as mud banked against their dress shoes and caked them a deep brown color that wouldn’t easily be scraped off. 

Alex stood off to the side, watching the congregation. By his side, Rian Dawson and Jack Barakat stood, taking turns to simultaneously place a hand on his shoulder, squeeze it, and whisper,‘It’s going to be okay.’

But Alex wasn’t sad anymore because sadness would require him to feel something. He didn’t feel anything as the icy drops of rain pelted his face and rolled down his cheeks where there should be tears. Alex wasn’t stricken with grief or sad or hysterical. He was merely numb. He couldn’t feel anything: not the wind batting at his damp suit or the rain coming down in droves or even the harsh sting of his brother’s absence.

Eventually, though, the parishioners left the cemetery, leaving Jack, Rian, and Alex. Mrs. Gaskarth had to be carried away by her brother as she had nearly fainted and hyperventilated from the state of grief she was in as she watched her son being lowered to his grave. His body cold and pallid and waxen in the coffin.

Once the last of the cars had driven out of sight, leaving Rian’s beat up 1995 Ford Taurus, Jack pulled Alex to the side of the cemetery where a thicket of woods sat, huge pines and crabapple trees that were overgrown. Their roots crept over the cemetery pathway like trespassers, and leaves fell and danced down to the tombstones as though christening them with their own form of apologies.

The three of them sat in a circle before Jack pulled out a tiny silver tin and a bag of roll-ups before he began sprinkling the pot onto the paper.

“Jack,” Alex said, “I don’t think we should be doing this here.”

“What?” Jack licked the paper. “This is the best place to do anything. Fucking ghost town, here.”

Alex fell silent, and Rian nudged him. “Alex, you need to take the edge off. We’re worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” But it was a fruitless lie.

“You’re not fine,” Rian said as he accepted the joint from Jack and took a hit from it, coughing a little. “Which is all very fine. Death normally doesn’t sit well with people.”

He handed the joint to Alex, who took it apprehensively. Lighting up the joint, he took his hit and smiled as the cannabis flooded through his body, definitely taking the edge of his nerves and numbing his body even more to the pain and the splattering rain around them and the rough stones they were sitting on that dug into Alex’s best suit pants.

“Yeah,” Jack went on, taking his hit, “death is never fucking fair, Al. It’s… it’s like this: a game. No- no, wait for it! It’s like a game. It’s random and never fair, and no one ever remembers who won. All they worry about is who lost and by how bad.”

“Precisely,” Rian chimed in, “death is a game, and we’re all pawns.”

“Who wins?” Alex choked on his next hit as the joint came round full circle.

“No one. Life wins.”

“Life’s a bitch,” Rian agreed.

“But, in the end,” Jack said, grinning, “that’s all there is to it?

“What? Alex asked lazily through a mouthful of smoke.

The cannabis was taking its effect and lulling him into a peaceful state of reverie. Around him, the graveyard looked less morbid. The gray pallor of the tombstones melded with the greens of the woods and the brown of the mud caked on his shoes until everything blended together in one chaotic mix of heaven and hell.

“Fucking,” Jack said, “that’s all there is to life. Fucking.”

“And dying,” Rian added. 

“Yeah.” Jack grinned again, dopey and doped-out. “Fucking and dying.”

Suddenly, Alex remembered Tom. The harsh words that cut through him as he yelled at his brother. The New Found Glory shirt stinging his body. The storming out of the house. And the storm brewing around them. Finally, he replied, “And risking it. Some people, they risk it all.”

Jack raised the joint above his head and called out for the entire cemetery to here, prompting a few birds in the trees over their heads to flutter off. “Here’s to everything that once was!”  
Rian hummed an agreement, while Alex sat beside him and muttered. “Here’s to heartbreak.”

 

II.

  
_Dear You,_

_I’m sorry if I did anything to offend you at the coffee shop yesterday. I hadn’t expected to run into you. Fuck, it’s been years, hasn’t it? Funny how you can think of a person everyday of your life, and they still look better in reality than anything in your dreams. I hope you’re not mad at me. I’d be mad at me, if I were you. Of course, I’m always mad at me, so that’s not saying much._

_But that’s what I miss, Trick (is that okay to call you Trick, still? Are you still him?). I miss Chicago. I’ve all this ringing on my fingers and in my eyes and in my head since last we left. It’s like you took away with you the sanest part of me you could find. And I guess that’s all right, Trick. Because in a way, those parts were yours. They always were. Even the less sane parts of me were always yours. Ever since we sat by Lake Michigan, and the wind blew your hat into the water, and I said. I said I’d drown for you. That I’d die for you._

_You blushed and laughed and told me to shut up, not to be so stupid._

_But I meant it, then, Trick. You were such a pivotal chapter in my life. I needed you so much. You were my lifeline. And like all lifelines, you have to learn to sink before you can float. You’ve got to learn to drown before you can breathe. That’s why I cut the ropes, Trick. I had to, so I could live._

_I had to let whatever we had die out, and I wonder if you’ll ever be able to forgive me for breaking your heart. I never meant for it to happen, but like all things… they just do. Hearts are fragile things, Trick, and we shouldn’t have to bear them alone. I’m sorry I never understood that in Chicago._

_But Cooperstown’s the place of second chances. I’ve learned so much since I’ve been here. I hope it’s helped you as much as it’s helped me._

_I wonder. If you’d ever give me one of those second chances._

_Please write home._

_Xo, Me._

Patrick stared at the letter he had found in his mailbox for sometime, frowning at it and staring at it in puzzlement and rereading it through three times before discarding it on the coffee table and leaning back in the sofa, wondering if he could just disappear.

It’s not like he hadn’t been expecting Pete to try to get a hold of him. That was entirely predictable. What Patrick was entirely unsure of was his own reaction. He had laid awake in night trying to decide what he’d do if Pete came to contact him. But nothing came to mind. He couldn’t run again; he was sick of running. He couldn’t ignore him; no one could ignore Pete Wentz. But he couldn’t very well walk into the arms of the person who had killed him a little by degrees.

And he couldn’t expect his grieving roommate to partake in his useless college dramas. It would be worse than hearsay to ask Brendon to pause his mourning for Greta just to help Patrick figure out how to pick up the pieces of his life that he thought he’d left on the skyline of Chicago.

But here it was, laid out for him on his coffee table: his life. Here it was: his past. Pete Wentz was the epitome of everything Patrick’s teenage years had been. He could remember his goofy smile as his bass thumped in his car when he picked up Patrick from school. Or the constant stream of text messages: good mornings and good nights, and see you laters. He remembered every little quirk or pet peeve he had with Pete. Patrick thought he had repressed those moment, but they came swirling back to him like a hurricane.

Pete was like that, though, like a hurricane. He was wild and unstable and unpredictable and more often than not you got swept away by his tide. Patrick was a drizzle, in comparison. And if that made any sense, maybe then he could begin to understand Pete Wentz’s enigmatic letter.

Did Patrick want to see him again? Did he want to reconcile?

Or did he just want to leave everything between them back in Chicago, dead and buried?

The question started to nag the back of his mind.

 

III.

 

Dallon Weekes’ office was a round room filled with bookshelves and morbid pictures of skeletons and zombies. A model coffin made of mahogany stood off to the side, and Brendon was half-expecting the charismatic young man to jump out of it any second as he sat in the middle of the overcast office, twiddling his thumbs and worrying his lip.

After Dallon had left yesterday, Brendon had intended to retreat into his comfortable haven of stashed alcohol in his bedroom. This, of course, had been interrupted by a visit from his long-time friend, Spencer Smith, and Spencer’s not-boyfriend, Jon Walker.

(“Brendon, we heard,” his friend said solemnly in the threshold as Brendon stepped aside to let them into the place. He engulfed him in a hug and sniffled in his ear. “I’m sorry.”  
Jon did nothing but sidle past and ask if they had any coffee, which Patrick directed him to.

“You okay, Spence?” Brendon felt like the wrong person was saying the wrong things.

Spencer nodded, then stared at his feet. “I-I guess….”

“What’s wrong?” Again, Brendon felt like a voyeur in his own place.

Spencer scraped his shoe against the welcome mat in the vestibule before he looked up with a shy smile and a blush and said, “I’m in love with Jon Walker.”

And Brendon’s face fell as he nearly forgot about Greta Salpeter.

He hardly knew Jon Walker, for one. All he knew about the coffee-addicted, booze hound man was that he was into terribly indie music, cats, and for some reason, the likes of Spencer Smith. He had dropped out of business college to chase acoustic dreams of playing shows for people. Often times, Brendon would open for his show at The Green Gentleman, both of them playing covers of sixties music such as The Beatles, Bob Marley, or even Christmas jingles when the holiday season rolled in. But Brendon knew, from rumor, that Jon had had his fair share of girls and one-night stands piled up. In fact, his reputation had nearly been as bad as Gabe Saporta’s on campus before Spencer had met Jon.

Then, like all love stories, the hero meets the hero(ine) and (s)he changes him for the better. In a way, that’s what Spencer did with Jon. He couldn’t remember exactly how they met, but he knew it must’ve been something to do with a very drunk Jon and a very young and timid freshman. The rest was history.

“What?!” Brendon sputtered as Spencer made a move to cover his mouth with his sweaty palm from the humid Californian air, sticky with sweat on the campus.

“You can’t tell him!” Spencer hissed. “I’m going to tonight. Don’t let him here.”

“Spencer, d-do you think he likes you back?”

Spencer shrugged, beet red. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m going to his work tonight. I asked a friend of mine to put on our song, so when I come in and tell him, it’ll mean so much more.”

“You mean Secondhand Serenade?”

Nodding, Spencer giggled giddily. “That’s our song. That’s how I feel about him. Completely and honestly. No reservations.”

“How do you know when you’re in love, Spence?” Brendon asked, remembering Ryan.

Spencer shrugged. “You just know, Brendon. You feel like two parts of a whole together. You feel like a sliver or perfection. You feel like you deserve them.”

And Brendon frowned because he hadn’t deserved Ryan or Greta.)

Brendon was wrenched from his thoughts by the sound of a creaky door as Dallon slid into the room and plopped down on his seat, the faux leather farting with his added weight. “You made it!”

Brendon managed a smile he’d learn to perfect post-breakup. “Yeah. I want Greta to be remembered properly.”

“Good.” Dallon nodded. “My cousin deserved that. She was the sweetest girl I ever knew.”

“She was,” Brendon mused, “She helped me come out of the closet when I was first nervous about it. I didn’t want the kids to beat me up for being gay,” he chuckled, “but she told me she’d punch whoever laughed at me straight in the face. And, one day, she did.”

“Greta knew what the world is like, even though so many people thought her naïve,” Dallon agreed, “She knew what she was getting into when she came out to her family, but she went ahead with it. Courage, now there’s a virtue.”

Brendon smiled, listening to the words issuing from Dallon’s mouth like little nursery rhymes. He could count sheep to his voice. “I wish I’d known the Greta you did.”

Dallon laughed at this, “Nah, you probably knew her better than me, Brendon. I admit, I was a shitty cousin. I didn’t help her nearly as much as I wish I did. Maybe then…,” he trailed off.

Instinctively, Brendon reached over the desk and gripped Dallon’s bicep, holding his hand there and feeling the broad muscles beneath. He gave him an encouraging squeeze. “Dallon, it’s not your fault she’s dead. If we say things like that, we’ll end up going in circles.”

“Right you are, Brendon,” he croaked through a smile. “I suppose, you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to her funeral, then? I don’t have a single friend in this town.”

For the first time in a while, Brendon smiled, truly. It hung in light of the overcast day, and Brendon thought maybe he saw a sunbeam peeking through the canvas of clouds. “Of course, Dallon. I’d love to.”

 

IV.

 

  
Abbotts Close was quiet, as it was on many nights, but this time it was a different sort of quiet. An anticipatory quiet. That proved correct as William sat in the overstuffed armchair and eyed Ryan sporadically out of the corner of his eye, biting his lip and twitching his leg as though he were expecting something to happen.

Ryan eventually noticed, though, and looked up from his assigned reading haughtily. “Can I help you, Beckett?”

“No,” he said on whim and bit his lip. “Yes?”

Ryan huffed, “What?”

“Well….” Here, William twiddled his fingers trying to articulate this the best he could. “I want…. You need… I….”

Quirking a brow, Ryan smirked. “Are you going to be finishing any of these sentences before I go to bed?”

And then it all came out in one rushed sentence, “WillyoudoubledatewithGabeandI?”

….

“What?!”

“Will you,” William enunciated, “double date with Gabe and I?”

“You’re going on a date with Gabe Saporta?!” Ryan gawked.

But William jumped up and sent his book and a collateral of papers to the ground in a flurry. “I wouldn’t call it a date! We hardly know each other! It’s a thank you present.”

“I thought you said he hadn’t been appreciative.”

“I know,” William growled, “but he came back and apologized.”

“Stand him up,” Ryan suggested loftily.

“Why?”

“Because you need to treat him the way he treated you.”

William frowned at this. Was it right to stand Gabe Saporta up? _The_ Gabe Saporta? The billionaire who wouldn’t look his way in a million years had he not saved him? The same billionaire who had accused William of taking advantage of his drunken self. Shifting, William wasn’t sure what to say.

Ryan was smart, see. That was thing with Ryan: he was a lot smarter than most people. He knew how people ticked and how people worked, but after the Brendon fiasco, William wasn’t sure whether or not to take relationship advice from his roommate.

Though, this wasn’t a relationship anymore than it was a date.

Was it?

  
V.

 

Gerard thought he had finally found some peace of mind as he curled up in the campus library and mulled over any book he could find that seemed to be able to help him. From serial killer anthologies to a collection of possible religious motives, Gerard read the miniature text through the dimmed lighting. He could feel his caffeine kick wearing off and sleep setting in. Looking at the clock, he realized it was past nine o’clock. He would have to make the thirty minute journey back to Monroeville soon and pray for Cooperstown, miles away, from the rival town.

Ray had finished gathering statements from people who had seen Greta Salpeter and Tom Gaskarth on the day of their deaths. Nothing, besides the cause of death, had been similar. Tom had hung out with his friends all day an rehearsed their New Found Glory cover songs. Greta had spent the day with close childhood friend, Hayley Williams. And the attacked girl, Jamia Nestor, had been working all evening. Neither of the alibis even coincided together.

Gerard ran a hand through his hair and tried to blink away the onset of sleep that was forming in his eyes. He still had piles and piles of books to go through. To check out. To bring back to Monroeville and read with a pot of coffee. He needed something to keep him awake, to keep the nightmares and the demons at bay that came for him when he closed his eyes. He needed something permanent….

A book slammed onto the table, rather loud in the silence of the night, and Gerard was startled awake. Looking up, he saw the cocky grin of Mr. Frank Iero standing over him. He had just slammed down a rather heavy book and sent dust particles flying in light of the old-fashioned oil lanterns that hung from the walls of the library.

“What are you doing here?” Gerard asked rudely through a yawn.

“Thought I’d help you do some research.” Frank slid into the chair opposite him and pulled the book towards him, flipping it open to a random page and skimming down the middle with his finger.

“You’re not even reading it!”

“I am.” Frank nodded earnestly. “It’s about a cult that went around killing gay people and any of their affiliations on a college campus fifteen years ago.”

“…what?” Gerard was awake, now.

Frank went on and flashed Gerard the cover page, Santi. “They were obsessed with the occult, and a god named Santi. According to their religion, Santi would purge the world of the impure. Of the sodomy. In fact, followers of Santi are celibate.”

“How’d you know about this?”

“I did my psychology paper on it,” Frank told him, “I told you I could help profile your killer.”

“So you think we have a serial killer targeting gay people?”

Frank shrugged. “Or affiliations of gay people. In fact, depending how deep they are into this religion, they could be killing anyone who’s not a virgin.”

Gerard stared at Frank, and Frank stared back. They were both challenging each other. Frank was silently telling Gerard to, ‘Go on. Let him join the case.’ And Gerard was trying to push the thought out of his mind as much as possible even though the book blared large between the two of them.

“I want to help.”

“You want your girlfriend better,” Gerard interrupted.

“I want whoever attacked her brought to justice! And if it’s one of these sick fucking freaks, well, it’s best you get your hands on him before I go out looking for him.”

“Is that a threat, Frank?”

“No. It’s a promise.” Frank’s face was hardened. “If I ever catch the ones who hurt her, God better turn his fucking back on me.”

“You believe in a God?” Gerard sounded genuinely surprise.

Frank fell silent, though, and handed the book to Gerard in defeat. He walked towards the exit and whispered, “If he answers my prayers….”

And the last thing he heard before he exited the library was the sound of Gerard’s voice cutting through the air like a static shock, “I want you in this case, Frank.”

 

VI.

 

Weaving through crowds of people rushing back from their night courses, Ryan mumbled under his breath and glowered at anyone who dared look his way. Immediately, though, they looked away and proceeded to whisper about the weird lit major he was. Ryan didn’t care though. His apathy ran thick in the Cooperstown campus.

Perhaps that was one of the few perks to growing up with his alcoholic father: you slowly stopped caring about what people thought of you. About the whispers they made about the bruises under your eye or the lacerations down your arm that had to be stitched up at one point. You didn’t care that they mocked you for having no friends or for never talking or for always walking alone. You stopped caring because the only thing left to care about hurt too much.

So Ryan was really a pro at ennui. Hue knew how the human race worked, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t miss when he had been ‘in love’ with Brendon (even though Ryan doesn’t believe in those childish clichés. Brendon wanted commitment and flowers and unconditional love, and Ryan doesn’t believe in any of those things). He didn’t miss suddenly having someone to care about.

People were merely burdens in his life.

And unfortunately, Ryan had become rather attached to William Beckett, his roommate, over their time together.

This was why he was traipsing through the campus, en route to nowhere in particular. Without a destination, Ryan might as well had gone to The Green Gentleman to scout out a date for this double date that night. He’d probably be luckier with a person fueled on whiskey and tequila than he would be finding a date in the middle of a Friday night.

He could remember the last time he had left his dormitory in the middle of the night for something besides his class.

(“Come on, Ry,” Brendon giggled in the moonlight. He was leading the way through the university campus, Ryan’s hand clutched tightly in his as though this was it. He would never let go.

“Where are we going, Brendon?” Ryan hated surprises. He hated surprises ever since he had to be surprised every time he found his father unconscious on the ground, slowly dying from the alcohol taking over his and his son’s life.

“You’ll see.”

“You know I hate surprises.”

“This is a good surprise.” Brendon looked back at him sincerely. “I promise.”

Ryan sighed and allowed Brendon to surprise him. He allowed Brendon to head to the outskirts of the beach, behind Evertree Crescent, and into a small thicket of woods that surrounded Cooperstown. He weaved down a dirt path that was overgrown with tree roots and thorn bushes (many of which jabbed at Ryan and mudded up his new shoes and his only pair of jeans that fit just right). Ryan didn’t complain, though, he just gripped Brendon’s hand tight and watched the moonbeams dance in front of them.

Finally, the thicket of woods opened up into a clearing where the silvery light of the moon threaded its way through the bedding of daffodils and grass that was wild and overgrown.

Daintily, Brendon laid down on the bedding of grass and tugged Ryan down beside him. “See? I wanted to see the moonlight on your body.”

“You could’ve seen it anyways,” Ryan whispered into Brendon’s hair.

“Not like this,” Brendon hummed against Ryan’s skin, making the hairs across his arms stand straight up. 

And Ryan couldn’t agree more.)

Ryan had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t seen the perky drama major galumphing up the sidewalk, her head lost in the stars as she tried to count each individual one. Neither of them saw each other as they collided with each other and both fell to the pavement with some scrapes and bruises.

“Sorry!” she squeaked.

Ryan was going to yell at her, was going to snap, but then he remembered Brendon and Brendon’s brown eyes the size of the moon, and he remembered a piece of poetry he had written about the boy with the oversized eyes.

_Back to the street where we began,_

_Feeling as good as love you could you can._

Ryan stared at the blonde girl in front of him. She was fragile and petite with long, lithe legs and a lean body that screamed choreography at him. She was wearing a pair of tight yoga pants and a loose shirt thrown over her shoulders. She eyed him behind brown eyes that reminded Ryan of someone he used to write poems for….

“That’s fine,” Ryan muttered, “it was my fault.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she asked timidly.

“I’m fine!” he said a bit harsher than intended before he was lost in her eyes again. It was refreshing to nosedive into such a familiar brown. In fact, if Ryan squinted he swore that they were the exact same shape too, even though he knew that was a lie. “Sorry. I’m having a bad day.”

“Me too,” she admitted to him sadly. “My dance teacher says I need to lose a few pounds to be in the campus play.”

“What?!” Ryan could remember a body with the exact same shape. A body that didn’t believe it was thin unless it was Ryan that was telling it otherwise…. “You’re skinny!”

Her sniffles subsided, and she smiled at him in light of the moon. “Thank you.”

“Actually,” Ryan stumbled over his words, “do you have anything to do tonight?”

“No. Why?”

“Would you like to come out with me tonight?” He thought fast, trying to pretend the words emitting from his mouth was poetry instead of petty conversation. “As an apology, you know. I feel bad for running you over.”

“It’s fine….”

“I’m Ryan, by the way,” he said. “Ryan Ross.”

The girl stared at him for a few more seconds, at his windswept hair and his dorky smile and his second-hand clothes too small for him. Finally, a smile spread across her face, reminding Ryan so much of a boy who brought him to the woods one day. “Okay, sure, Ryan. My name’s Keltie Colleen.”

Ryan smiled back, and he didn’t even know if it was fake or not.

 

VII.

 

Jaime Preciado’s apartment was right across from The Green Gentleman on Thames Street. It was a modest one-bedroom place with an attached living room and kitchen that Jaime kept neat and tidy. Vic liked the place compared to his own home in the Calderstones on Verdala Park. He liked Jaime’s place because it was clean and tidy and didn’t have heroin addicted mothers wasting away in front of his eyes.

Jaime’s house was an escape for Vic.

“So where were you yesterday?” Jaime asked. He was reclined on his couch with a beer lopsided in his hand and his feet propped against the coffee table. His feet stunk, but Vic didn’t mind. After all, it was Jaime’s place.

“I was… out,” Vic lied lamely.

“Come on, Vic.” Jaime nudged him. “We haven’t kept secrets from each other since grade school. What’s been up with you?”

Vic sighed. He knew Jaime could read him like a book. “My mom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, she was buying from Obbo yesterday.”

“Obbo was over your house yesterday?!” Jaime roared and leaped up, sloshing beer across his otherwise neat carpet.

“Sit down, Jaime,” Vic said hastily, “He stayed in the living room with her.”

Teetering a bit, Jaime finally made his decision to sit down instead of run after Obbo and tear him limb from limb. He took a swig from his bottle and stared at Vic with deep concern. “You know, I’d kill the fucker if you asked.”

“Well, I didn’t, Jaime, and you’re not capable of murder.”

“How do you know?”

“Don’t talk like that!” Vic snapped. “Don’t you read the headlines? People are dying out there!”

“Calm down, Vic. I know.”

Vic tried to concentrate on the here and now with Jaime, but his mind kept wandering to Kellin Quinn. Why was Kellin so invested on helping Vic get better? Why was he so desperate to keep Vic from hurting? Had Kellin used to self-harm? Did someone hurt Kellin the way someone had hurt Vic? Questions raced through his mind, but he was grounded to reality by Jaime’s calming voice.

“Vic, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jaime. I’m just anxious, I guess.”

Jaime sighed, “I wish you’d let me front you the money for your medication.”

“No! I have enough people practically buying my way through life. Mike with his two jobs that are killing him….”

Jaime eyed him. “Maybe people care about you, Vic. Maybe I want you to have your Ativan.”

“But I can handle this, Jaime, I really can. I can fight this disease,” Vic whispered. And maybe it was more of a whisper to himself than Jaime. Maybe it was a wish more than anything.

The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep with his head on Jaime’s shoulders and a protective grip around his waist was a pair of blue eyes staring at him in the mirror, heartbroken.

 

VIII.

 

“You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to.”

“I owe that kid something, Pete.”

“I know, Gabe. But… you don’t owe him everything.”

“I know,” Gabe said. 

He stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom; Pete was watching him from the threshold, poised against it and watching Gabe tidy up his mass of unruly curls and try to cover up the crow’s feet around his eyes with some make-up. He looked much like Pete when insomnia hit hard. The nights of piled up drinking binges and one-night stands finally taking their toll on the wealthy boy.

“I’m always here for you, Gabe, you know that,” Pete murmured like it was a secret between the two of them. It had never been said aloud, the way they needed each other, but perhaps it had to be addressed tonight of all nights with death still fresh in the air and the incident still haunting Gabe’s mind no matter how much he tried to bury it. He doubted booze would work this time.

“Pete, you’re my best friend.”

Pete smiled. “I saw him again today, Gabe.”

“Who?”

“Patrick Stump.”

Gabe smiled at Pete in the mirror, their eyes never leaving the other’s. “You going to try to rekindle the flame?”

“I loved him, Gabe. I loved him more than life itself.”

“So why’d you let him go?”

“I had to,” Pete said, “They say if you love something, you should set it free. I set him free, a-and I want him back.”

“You deserve him, Pete.”

“You deserve someone, too, Gabe. Everyone does.”

Gabe didn’t believe, but for some reason it cheered him up even as he adjusted the collar on his flannel shirt in preparation for his date.


	7. Sleeping Alone

 

I.

 

When eight o’clock rolled in, Gabe left the condo on Evertree Crescent and drove to Abbotts Close in the nicest of his three cars: the Mercedes-Benz. It had been a gift for Gabe if he agreed to go to college and get out of his dad’s hair. Sometimes, the billionaire boy even got a new car every Christmas if he didn’t do anything too embarrassing for the tabloids. This year, though, was not looking so good for him as he had already had a cheating scandal with his ex-girlfriend Bianca, been caught standing up esteemed model, Erin Fetherston, and even the sexual assault from a few days ago, which in Gabe’s mind, was public for everyone to know.

He tried to ignore the haunting thoughts of those harsh touches and rough, calloused fingers and a throaty voice breathing and laughing wickedly, “You like that?”

Gabe tried to drown it out with some Justin Timberlake and the sound of the wind cutting through his peripheral as he rolled the top down in his car and felt the humid breeze of Cooperstown, California.

He tried not to think of the incident that had been taunting the back of his mind since it happened. He tried not to think of how William Beckett had looked like an angel in his drunken haze.  
He remembered his mother from Uruguay. They would sit up late in his room and stare out at the window, watching the South American stars and the Milky Way dance until it looked like falling liquid, lathering the ground where the horizon met. He remembered her sifting her hands through his hair and whispering to him different little things. He remembered her telling him the story of the angel, Guillermo.

_“Guillermo was a beautiful angel,”_ she had told him, _“He was the protector of the broken. Of the poor. Of the damned, Gabriel. And when I’m asleep, Guillermo will protect you, too. My sweet carino._ ” She would kiss his forehead. “ _You deserve no less._ ”

Gabe wondered why the angel Guillermo had not protected him when that man had pressed him against the wall of the condo’s parking garage. When that man had grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him to suck him off. When Gabe had bitten his prick and set off on the fastest run he had ever had in his life. He had run until his cigarette-collapsed lungs burned and his sides ached and his muscles screamed at him. He had run until he had thrown up and felt the world spinning and collapsed onto the white sands of the Californian coast.

In Gabe’s daze, he had almost passed the small dormitory on Abbotts Close. He parked and honked the horn, mentally prepping himself in his rearview mirror. Telling himself not to think of what had happened only days ago.

Finally, though, William emerged from the dormitory followed by who Gabe recognized as Ryan Ross and a girl who was foreign to him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” William said politely as he slid in the passenger seat. Gabe watched Ryan refuse to open the door for the blonde girl and the two of them slid in the back together. She was dressed in a cute Lolita dress, and he was wearing a pair of ripped skinny jeans. “Where are we going?”

Gabe shrugged. “The campus carnival, I think. Nothing else to do.”

It was an unspoken whisper to his angel, saying he was afraid to get drunk again.

William nodded and watched Gabe’s hands shift gears as they coasted down the roads. “Gabe, this is Ryan and Keltie.”

Gabe tried on his devilish smile for the night. “You two heard the rumors about me, I presume?”

“Oh yes,” Ryan drawled, “but it’s nothing like the living legend, himself, I presume.”

Keltie nudged him, but Gabe laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid. You’ll find out the tabloids know exactly what they’re talking about.”

“Ryan doesn’t read the tabloids,” interjected William, “he just likes to be an ass.” At that, he glowered at his friend in the mirror. Ryan looked bored.

“Fair enough,” Gabe said.

They drove until they reached the main campus, and Gabe parked the car, looking unfamiliar to the routine as he had looked around for a valet for a little bit before deciding that maybe his car was too fragile to leave to a stranger who seemed to be a little bit absent.

They folded themselves out of the car, and Gabe watched the lights of the carnival swim in William’s eyes. All the reds and yellows and oranges of the miniature Ferris wheel and the game booths and the smell of cinnamon and funnel cake that wafted through the air to their car on the small hill overlooking the hollow of the university. It sat in the small dip of the parking lot, nestled comfortably and looking like some paradise Gabe Saporta had yet to mark as his.

“Will you win me a stuffed animal?” Keltie was asking Ryan who yawned and nodded lamely before asking if she minded if he bought himself a drink. She said she didn’t.

“Do you want a stuffed animal, too?” Gabe teased.

“Nah” William said loftily, “I assume you’d just buy out the entire booth.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, the real challenge is the game.”

“Those games aren’t even challenging!” Gabe accused.

“Funny,” said William as they trooped behind Keltie and Ryan. William suddenly wished he had several pairs of eyes as he stared at the set-up stage where a local band was performing amid the cheers of the crowd and freshmen were screaming down the slide and seniors were throwing up on other rides. “Considering you’ve never actually tried to win anything.”

And Gabe was going to comment back sneeringly when he finally was able to glimpse the carnival. The crowd. The people. All the unknown faces that could be his attacker. All his vulnerability folded out for the university students to see. He stopped dead in his tracks.

William looked back and stopped too. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Gabe lied, but he didn’t move.

William frowned and returned to Gabe’s side on the side of the grassy hill. “Are you sure?”

Everything between them hung in the air around them and was suffocating Gabe.

“Let’s sit.” William folded himself onto the grass and patted the patch next to him.

With quivering legs, Gabe joined him. “S-sorry. Just… crowds,” he said weakly. For some reason, telling William this made sense. Guillermo. His guardian angel.

“I know,” whispered William, “You didn’t have to do this for me. I-- I don’t want you to feel obligated to treat me nice. I did a nice thing for you, Gabe, and--”

“A nice thing?” Gabe echoed hollowly, “William, that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. You fucking saved my life! I, at least, owe you mine.”

“I don’t want your life, Gabe.”

“You’re the reason I’m sitting right here, next to you.”

William grew silent and tipped backwards on his back, so he was staring up at the galaxy above them, the stars reflecting in the dark pupils of his eyes that Gabe watched with secret admiration.

He followed suit and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it up and watching the smoke dissipate above their heads.

“You know, it takes light years for stars’ lights to reach us,” William said.

“I know,” Gabe said, and he did because that’s what he felt like now.

“They’re already dead,” William went on, “we just haven’t got the news yet.”

“I know,” repeated Gabe, “My mother used to watch the stars with me. She never knew any of the names, and the only one I know is Sirius.”

“The Dog Star,” William murmured, “the brightest star in our galaxy.”

And just maybe, Gabe thought, the biggest corpse of them all.

It was funny how Gabe never cared much for stars or angels as a kid, but sneaking glances into William’s eyes, Gabe wondered how none of that ever mattered before.

 

 

II.

 

“Thank you,” she squealed.

“It was no problem,” he slurred. He was drunk. Tipsy. Inebriated. Anything but sober. He couldn’t stand being sober here and listening to her prattling on about dances and pas de chevels and other bullshit he didn’t care about in her upcoming musical debut (she was the lead).

Keltie tucked the stuffed elephant beneath her arm and grabbed Ryan’s hand with her other, taking the forward approach, and weaving through the throng of students that were still out enjoying the carnival. Gabe and William had left them very early on, but Ryan didn’t care. It’s not like he wanted to watch the pity date, anyways, or whatever they were calling it.

“You know, Ryan, you’re the nicest boy I’ve met in a while.”

Ryan really wanted to laugh at that, but it came out as a belch, forcing him to excuse himself. “You mustn’t get out too much,” he settled for.

She shoved him lightly. “Shut up. That’s not true. You’re honestly nice.”

“That’s not what everyone else says,” Ryan muttered thinking of Brendon and his perfect smile and his perfect hands and perfect body and perfect laugh….

“Fuck ‘em,” she said, “This was a really nice date, Ryan, thank you.”

He screwed up his face. “You’re leaving?”

“I have to. I have to go home and run some more lines,” she explained with a pale blush on her cheeks and an apology in her throat.

“Good luck,” Ryan said and wondered if he meant it.

Keltie lingered there for quite some time before, quite quickly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against Ryan’s. It was short and chaste and a mere peck, but Ryan was left with the lingering taste of watermelon that reminded him sorely of someone in particular.

“Good night,” she squeaked again before dashing away.

Ryan reached up and touched his lips in light of the moon.

 

#### Saturday

 

 

III.

 

“Good morning,” Jon Walker chirped to Spencer, who walked up from the back-killer couch he had been sleeping on through the night, albeit unknowingly to Jon, the younger hadn’t slept a wink and had lain awake into the night, staring at the mottled ceiling. Jon was standing in front of the stove, spooning eggs from the frying pan and onto two plates. He handed that and a cup of coffee to Spencer who accepted with a murmured thanks. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” Spencer lied. He tried to ignore the skip in Jon’s walk and the waltzing cadence in his voice, but it was thoroughly prevalent. The way Jon’s eyes shone in a way that Spencer had never been able to make them before. “How was yours?”

“Oh, nothing special,” Jon lied, and Spencer wasn’t sure why he was lying to him. Spencer had seen it all. The kiss. Their tongues. The way Jon had walked in the front door of the First Street home at four in the morning in the same clothes from last night, smelling like booze and smoke and some foreign piquancy altogether.

“Listen, I think I should start staying back at my dorm,” Spencer said, spooning ample amounts of sugar in his coffee and watching the blackness of it dissipate into a milky tint.

“What? Why?”

Jon sat down across from Spencer at the island and shoveled forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. He seemed to just be going through the motions of saying goodbye to a friend, and it stung Spencer that maybe he really didn’t care.

“My grandmother is fronting me a lot of money to have that dorm. It seems a waste to just leave it empty all the time,” Spencer spoke, and he hated how prevalent the lies sounded pouring from his mouth.

Jon chewed thoughtfully. “What if you didn’t have to pay on the dorm anymore?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“What if… what if you move in with me? I mean, I’ve got the extra space, a-and we get along. It’s better than you cooped up inside your placeall the time. Face it, Spence, without me, you’d teeter over the lines of socially awkward to full-blown hermit.”

“I wouldn’t be a hermit. W-we prefer the term: enlightened individuals, anyways.”

Jon chuckled, “Surely you can talk to the Room and Board Office today and have something arranged? Move in before the semester is over. They’ll be happy to have a free dorm, anyways.”

“I guess,” Spencer drawled and hated how he couldn’t say no to Jon. He simply wanted to stand and yank at his hair and scream at the top of his lungs and cry at how Jon kissed Cassie during their song. _Their song_. Not many things were sacred to Spencer, after all he was hardly religious, but Secondhand Serenade was unadulterated. It was sacrilegious, what Jon had done. Tonguing a girl during the only few stanzas in the world that aptly summed up Spencer’s feelings for the other man.

It had been a long time coming. Long hours of drinking together on the couch and waking up next to each other with matching hangovers. Cozy breakfasts around the island and playing the silly panoply of board games that Jon had tucked away in his basement. Drunken serenading of Secondhand Serenade in the car, cruising back to First Street as Spencer tried not to empty the contents of his stomach. Watching phosphenes fall across Jon’s face like shooting stars out of the corner of his eye. Licking his lip and giggling to Jon, ‘I love you.’ Spencer could see every inch of their relationship laid out for him, and somehow he couldn’t find where the kiss with Cassie fit into it all.

Between all the drinking and sleeping together they did, Spencer’s surprised Jon had never once thought to serenade to Spencer their song. It seemed like this had been obvious to everyone. In fact, Brendon had hardly seemed fazed when Spencer had said it aloud for someone else’s ears. He loved Jon Walker.

And maybe he liked the idea of Jon more than Jon, at this moment, but something was telling him he couldn’t deny moving in with his friend. Cassie might only be a temporary roadblock, and Spencer was afraid to put anymore distance on the miles between them at this point. Maybe he did like the idea of Jon more than he liked Jon at this point. After all, Spencer decided, in this moment, he really fucking hated Jon Walker.

Jon with his stupid cropped cut and his baggy v-necks and khaki shorts and man sandals that he swore was still in style. His stupid obsession with volunteering for the humane society every weekend and the stupid way he always rescued Spencer when the latter was drunk. Spencer hated the warmth in his eyes and the warmth that radiated from his stomach when he slept shirtless and rolled close to Spencer, dead to the world. He hated the way Jon made good eggs (not soggy or burnt), he hated how his coffee was to die for, and Spencer hated the way that Jon smiled at the memory of Cassie’s lips pressed against his.

But the longer Spencer stared at Jon, he realized this was it. This was his life: he could never hate Jon Walker. He just hated the way he loved Jon so much that it burned. It physically ached for Spencer, and he wondered if this was what Brendon meant when he talked about heartbreak.

 

 

IV.

 

This time, they met up in the same corner of the library where the smell of dust particles against old book pages was thick, and the odor of putrid fabric cleaner and rich furniture polisher oozed from the chairs and table they were seated at. The librarian was up at the reception desk, her beady crow eyes glaring at them occasionally, and he fingers and sharp nails tapping away on the ancient computer’s keys. Gerard felt strangely as thought he were in middle school again.

“So we think the murders have to do with the Santi cult?” Gerard whispered to Frank, skimming through the said book and staring at the propaganda of homosexuals that reminded Gerard of the Goebells propaganda from decades ago.

“It has to be!” Frank insisted. “Same motive. Virtually the same murder technique. In fact, the only difference so far, is that the murderer hasn’t tried to sacrifice a homosexual virgin yet.”

“Yet,” Gerard reiterated sharply. “We have to hurry.”

Frank continued to skim the book, but it proved useless as his mind was racing. He couldn’t calm it down at this point. All he could think about were strings of connections between the victims. Greta Salpeter had been gay, there was no question of that rumor. Tom Gaskarth was one of the heads of an LGBTQ clubs, here at the school, that raised awareness for equality. And Jamia? That was where Frank was stumped. As far as he was concerned, Jamia had been straight and had been as liberal as anyone else on homosexual rights. Why had she been attacked?

“Why’d you let me on the case?” Frank asked distractedly, his mind wandering and wandering far away from the campus library.

Gerard sighed, “Don’t ask me that, Frank.”

“I just wanted to know--”

“And it’s really none of your business as this point in time. Just be grateful that I put you on this case.”

Frank nodded and stared at the book again where pictures of gods and demigods were used to justify the feelings towards homosexuals.

“And remember,” Gerard muttered, “everything stays between us.”

“Got ya, boss.”

“I mean it, Frank.”

“I mean it, too, Gee.”

“Excuse you?”

He shrugged. “I figured we should have nicknames for each other. It was that or your choice: Mulder or Scully?”

“Neither! Frank, this is serious.”

“Are you getting too old for this shit?” Frank quoted with a sly smile and a giggle that escaped his lips.

Gerard rolled his eyes, realizing the length of the case had already begun. And the sooner they work together, the sooner Gerard could get the giggling _child_ off his back. “Look, you said you were good at psychology. Prove it. Profile the perp.”

“He was abused as a kid,” Frank said automatically, “He felt humiliated and ashamed and chose to take his anger out on people who think what happened to him was normal, even though they’re two separate things. He wants people to feel as humiliated as he did about homosexual feelings. He was probably rejected a lot as a kid, probably still is, probably doesn’t have a lot of friends but definitely isn’t a loner. He has a close-knit group that probably have his same ideals.”

“So we’re basically looking for a damned Austrian in a crowd of Germans, is what you’re telling me?” Gerard groaned.

“Not exactly,” Frank said, “he’s definitely probably connected to each of the victims somehow. He knew them each, that’s why he went after them. Because it was personal.”

“Frank?” Gerard whispered. “I have a feeling this is going to be a lot more bloodier than it needs to be.”

“Can’t live until you die,” Frank retorted, standing up and exiting the library.

Gerard watched him go and wondered what it was that made the psychology major tick because he really wished he could be that young and reckless anymore. Something in him had just given up. And perhaps it was all because of Bert….

 

 

V.

 

Kellin was about to climb out through his window again and onto the roof of his house. He wasn’t sneaking out tonight; in fact, he had grown tired of his escapades shortly after discovering Vic Fuentes’ dirty little secret. The tiny Mexican boy began haunting his mind, and the idea that Kellin could end up where he was at: alone and depressed and desperate, scared Kellin. So he had stopped snaking out to parties along the Californian beach condos and had taken to crawling out to the roof to stare at the stars.

He had done it with Katelynne so many times before. Laid awake in her backyard, side by side, holding hands, and watching the stars above their heads. Neither of them had been interested in astronomy, but both of them had thought themselves oh so clever by considering themselves star-crossed lovers. The head cheerleader of the high school and the loner boy of the school. To their young and naïve minds, they were a modern example of Romeo and Juliet.

Kellin laughed quietly, wondering what had ever propelled him to be so caught up in the idea of love. Love sucked, he thought. Love was fake and didn’t exist. Love was a façade for fools.

Kellin was about to climb out the window when suddenly a voice roared from his doorway. “Oh, no you don’t! I will not sit around while you disobey me behind my back and dispute my good name in public!”

Swallowing hard, Kellin turned to see his pudgy gather standing in the doorway with her apron of stomach dangling from his torso, his beefy mustache dangling dangerously from his upper lip, and his round face a beet red and his eyes so miniscule he would’ve looked comical had Kellin not been feeling the adrenaline of fear surge throughout his entire body.

“I wasn’t--” Kellin stammered, “I was going out on the roof, I swear!”

“Do I look like an idiot to you, boy?!” he screamed and took a thundering step towards Kellin.

Kellin was pressed against his wall in a matter of seconds. “Dad, I swear to you….”

“I do not pay for a college education, so you can go out a get wasted, you ungrateful bastard. How would you like it if I made your spoiled ass pay for your own education, huh? You’d get nowhere, wouldn’t you, you fucking ingrate!”

But Kellin’s pleas were drowned out by the smacking sound of his dad’s fist against his face. There was a sharp pain flooding around his eye, and already he could feel the purpling of the bruise bubbling up around the almond shape. He squeezed his eyes shut and mentally tried to prepare as another fist flew forward and connected with his jaw. A foot scraped against his chin. His ribs were sore, and soon Kellin was on the floor being attacked by a barrage from his dad’s foot. The thick stumpy toes digging into his ribcage over and over again until Kellin swore he could taste blood on his lip, and the taste made him throw up everywhere.

“Clean it up!” his dad screamed, “Clean it up, and if I have to put a lock on this window, so help me, I will.”

And with that, he stomped out of the room, leaving Kellin on the ground choking and gasping for air.

 

 

VI.

 

The phone looked like a death sentence, sitting on the coffee table. Patrick Stump looked down at Pete’s untidy scrawl and stared at the phone number in the margins. He stared back to the phone. Down at the margin. And back at the phone.

He’d been doing this for an hour already, trying to contemplate whether or not he should call Pete.

His mind was driving him closer and closer towards dialing the number, but he was always stopped in the middle by a voice in his head wondering what the fuck he would even say to Pete.

_“I know we haven’t talked in years, but I think that meeting in the coffee shop was fate. I’m going to forgive you for breaking my heart. Okay? Bye.”_

Even Patrick couldn’t envision himself saying that. He wondered if forgiveness was that easy. If forgiving was the same as forgetting, or if there was always a certain amount of remembrance that came with forgiving. A lingering sensation in the back of one’s mind that propelled the bond deeper and deeper. He shook his head and sipped his tea again (three sugars, no cream), trying to think if there really was any reason to call Pete.

Sure, his letter had been pretty straightforward about wanting to be in Patrick’s life again. But Patrick had been doing well for himself, up to this point. Sure, he had never really been kissed before in his life (Pete had always playfully kissed his cheek), and sure he was a recluse if it weren’t for Brendon, and maybe he was a bit stumped on lyrics for his project for his music major that he had everything else put together for, but Patrick would consider this one of his better years at Cooperstown University

Still, something was nagging the back of his mind. Telling him that he needed to call Pete. That he couldn’t just leave their relationship dead and buried on a Chicago rooftop.

Sighing, Patrick began pressing buttons, slowly and persistently before he put the mobile up to his ear and listened to the ringing

_…ring…._

_…ring…._

_..r-_ \- “Hello?”

Patrick’s throat felt clogged as though it were filled with something cottony. He couldn’t breathe, and he could feel himself choking up as he listened to Pete repeat his hello. Without a word, Patrick quickly hung up and found himself curled up on the couch only minutes later, wondering what the fuck he was going to do about Pete Wentz.

 

 

VII.

  
“She’s not stable yet, you do realize this?”

“Yeah, yeah. Bob, I just wanna see her.”

“I know, Frankie,” Bob said as he accelerated the car around another bend en route to the hospital in Monroeville. “But you’ve got to get rid of this fantasy idea that she’s Sleeping Beauty, and you’re going to kiss her awake.”

“Bob, I’m not a six-year-old girl. I know how this works.”

“Frankie, you’re not Prince Charming.”

“And you’re really looking like a pedophile with all these Disney references, but I’m not judging you.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay. I’m kidding.” Frank held up his hands in defeat “I know you prefer boys anyways.”

“Look, Frank, I know you’re nervous; but don’t take it out on me. I’m not afraid to put this car through a shop wall just to get you to shut the fuck up.”

“You know, you say that, but I think you like me, Bob.” Frank fluttered his lashes and adopted a high falsetto. “Am I a pretty girl, Bobby?”

By now, Bob was a tomato red that Frank wasn’t sure was anger or embarrassment. He decided it was both and leaned back in his seat after spinning the radio dial to something more pleasing than the shitty pop station Bob had had on.

“Frank, she’s going to be okay, though,” Bob muttered, “she’s stable, they said. She’ll survive.”

But Frank remained quiet; he didn’t trust his voice to say anything else without breaking out into tears. He missed Jamia Nestor. Nothing else could be said.

 

 

VIII.

 

They sat in his bedroom, sprawled out across the floor and skimming through old magazines filled with posters of bands that Alex was peeling out of the spine and hanging on his wall for a bit of redecoration. He needed to keep his mind busy, and inviting Rian to help him out with this seemed like a full-proof plan.

He wouldn’t have to linger on thoughts of Tom, and he wouldn’t worry about whether or not he was crushing on Jack. Both of those were stressors in his life he didn’t need to deal with- and didn’t want to deal with. Both of those were keeping Alex from being happy, and if that meant he had to spend less time with Jack, then maybe Rian could fill in as his best friend.

He liked Rian, anyways. They had met in Alex’s art major and had hit it off pretty quickly by drawing dicks all over the desks and making ‘your mom’ jokes that sent the art teacher into frenzies. It was good fun enough, anyways, and Alex had never been happier to have a friend who understood all his quirks- or most of them, anyways- Jack was the only one who could know them all.

Alex shook his head as he peeled a poster of Blink-182 out of the magazine and stood on a chair to hang it up: he would not think of Jack today. He was hanging with Rian, and the change was refreshing.

“You okay, Alex?”

“Fine. How’ve you been? I heard you and Cassadee might break-up?”

“Nah.” Rian shook his head. “That was a rumor. Cass and I have never been closer. I’m thinking of proposing to her.”

“Really?!” Alex nearly fell of his chair.

“Yeah,” Rian said, “I love her, and she loves me. No sense beating around the bush when the truth is right there for the both of us.”

Alex pondered Rian’s words. It was true. Love was love, and maybe the semantics of it didn’t matter. Maybe all that mattered were the two shared feelings of the individuals. Maybe all that mattered was how nothing felt as perfect as falling asleep to Jack’s uneven snores….

Alex shook his head again and tried to not think of Jack. He tried to think of happy Rian and Cassadee who had met at some frat party two or three years ago. She had been drunk and was throwing up in the lawn when Rian had found her and offered her a ride back to her house. She couldn’t remember the address or the directions, so Rian had ended up taking her back to his place. There had been no sex involved (Rian had even slept on the couch), and she had invited him to breakfast the next morning for his chivalry.

Alex wished love was that easy, sometimes. “I knew you guys would make it,” he congratulated, “You two are the whole reason why I believe in love.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just… all you see in romance these days is how dead it is. How fighting happens. How you fall apart. Lying, cheating, arguing, hating…. But, like, when I see you two together and happy, it gives me hope, Ri.”

“I take it you weren’t in love with Lisa?” Rian raised a brow.

“No.”

“Well, you have to be in love with someone. Everyone who believes in love believes in it only because they have someone who makes them.”

“I told you, you and Cassadee make me.”

“No.” Rian clicked his tongue in aggravation. “You have to have someone who you love that makes you believe you two can make it. People are selfish like that, Alex. You’re no exception.”

“Never said I was.”

“Then who is it? Who do you love?”

But Alex just couldn’t force himself to say Jack’s name, not even when it was taunting the tip of his tongue.

 

 

IX.

 

It had been a whole day since the carnival date, and William hadn’t heard from Gabe. To say he was worried was an understatement because William had seen how the Spanish boy had reacted in light of the crowds. The jittery nerves. The biting of his lip. The quivering of his legs. William had seen it all, and he felt indebted to Gabe. It was like in all those Eastern cultures, when you save someone else’s life, you become responsible for them forever.

They become a part of you.

William still hadn’t decided what part of him is Gabe: the better half or the worse.

Ryan had returned home last night, surprisingly pleasant and whistling some Beatles tune he hadn’t listened to since the break-up. William supposed this was a good sign, and prayed that Keltie  knew what she was getting into. With Ryan came mood swings and apathy and a dislike for the mainstream and troubled thoughts and a god delusion and everything in between.

He fumbled with his phone as he pressed the buttons of Gabe’s number that he had got off Pete Wentz.

Pete had been more than willing to give William the number, saying that William was someone Gabe needed in his life at this point in time. Someone to show him the best of humanity.

William had tried not to blush and think about Gabe. The troubled billionaire with skeletons in the closet, their bony arms around his windpipe, choking and suffocating him with the past.

William pitied him. He knew the past wasn’t ideal; in fact, it was lethal. He could still remember Tom’s death. The alcohol poisoning. The way William was sure he could’ve saved him had he only been a good friend and had not been off getting drunk, selfishly.

The phone began to ring, and after two rings, Gabe picked up.

“Hello?”

“G-gabe,” William stuttered, “it’s William.”

“Hey, William.” Gabe didn’t even seem phased that William had gotten his phone number.

“I just wanted to check up on you. How’re you?”

“Fine.” Gabe’s voice was defensive.

“And I wanted to thank you again for the date,” William said quickly, and he could almost feel Gabe’s tense smile softening on the other end of the line.

“No problem, William. I had fun just watching the stars with you.”

“Me too.”

He paused. “Would you be up for something like that again?”

“A-another date?” William nearly squeaked.

“Yeah.”

“S-sure.”

“Alright. I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodnight, Guillermo.”

And he hung up before William could even ask what that meant.

 

X.

 

Sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the metal blade clasped tight in his hand, Vic stared at the exposed flesh of his arm. He only had a half hour before Mike came home from his first job. He would have to be quick. Quick with the cutting and the cleaning up and the shower and the laundry so that he would have a clean hoodie to hide the scars and the twisted lacerations.

Obbo hadn’t returned, which was good because Vic might have to have taken Jaime up on his offer to murder the fucker.

Vic tried hard not to think of Obbo because it stung. Tears rimmed his eyes and his hand shook as he pressed the blade closer and closer to his caramel skin.

He could practically taste the blood that would be pouring from his arm any minute from now. He was practically predatory in his actions as he lightly traced along his vein with the blade. No blood dripped out. He was not putting enough pressure on yet; he was simply teasing himself.

When he was ready, Vic gripped the blade tighter and tighter until his knuckles were chalk white and he could get a good angle on his wrist. He could feel the cool metal of the blade against his skin. He could feel the blade incising into his skin. He could…

…there was a knock at his window.

And Vic looked up to see Kellin Quinn.


	8. Verdala Park

I.

 

Vic’s heart stopped as he stared at Kellin hanging outside his window. The boy’s hair was windswept from the harsh breeze of the September air, and his teeth were chattering from the frigid night. He gripped tight to the windowsill and knocked again. Regaining his senses, Vic leapt up and threw open the window, shivering himself as the wind cut into the room, but soon it was obsolete as Kellin closed the window behind him and pattered onto the carpet with his beat-up, muddy Toms.

“W-what are you doing here?” Vic stammered, wondering if somehow Kellin was now spying on him to see whether he cut or not.

But that notion quickly left Vic’s mind when he saw dried tears on the other boy’s cheeks that he quickly wiped under Vic’s hard stare.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, out of breath and throat still choked with light sobs, “I didn’t know where else to go. I just… I needed… _help_.”

Vic noticed a deep bruise around Kellin’s magnificent blue eyes. He noticed the fresh purpling of it and the way it looked like it stung every time the other boy blinked. He noticed the way he limped and the way there was dried blood caked on his lip and the way he was doubled over gasping for breath.

“D-did someone attack you?!” Vic exclaimed, thinking of the headlines from the _Monroeville and District Gazette._

“S-sort of,” Kellin wheezed before collapsing in the middle of Vic’s room, making the him wonder how the fuck he had managed to make it all the way to Verdala Park from Carnot Avenue. The two were at least a bus ride away from each other.

Vic ran out of his room, for once glad that his mother was passed out in the living room and that Mike was working two jobs. He ran into the bathroom and grabbed the first-aid kit before running back to his room and barking at Kellin, “Take off your shirt!”

Fumbling a bit, Kellin didn’t even hesitate in tearing off his shirt and revealing a thick conglomeration of bruises all across his ribs. Vic flinched and went about dabbing peroxide on the clotted cuts with Kellin hissing in pain and practically screaming. He sounded like he was going through withdrawal, himself.

“P-please!” Kellin whined through clenched teeth, trying to struggle out of Vic’s grip.

But Vic wasn’t going to let Kellin go. He wasn’t going to let the other boy writhe in pain when an infection happened. He couldn’t prevent his mother’s addiction and pain, but he could prevent this boy’s, so Vic straddled the boy and held his wrists down with one hand, surprised at how Kellin was much too in pain to fight back (considering the stockier boy could overtake Vic in a second).

Kellin’s breathing slowed, yet his heart sped up as he stared at Vic on top of him, lightly dabbing the peroxide across his jaw and on his chest where the bruises were prominent and fresh and looked painful.

He twitched with the sting of the medicine, and Vic tried to be more gentle with the pressure he was using against the cuts and contusions.

Trying to distract the pained boy, Vic asked, “Do you want to spend the night?”

Silence, save for Kellin’s labored breathing as he fully comprehended Vic’s question in his head. Mulled it over with Vic sitting atop him, dabbing at cuts that were drying up under his ministrations.

They stared at each other. Kellin’s blue eyes, the ones that had been filled with so much pain and heartbreak, had cracked in front of Vic’s own broken eyes. Together, alone, they were two broken toys that nobody wanted. Tattered rag dolls with no real use, left up on a shelf to gather dust. Together, the two boys felt unwanted.

“C-can I?” Kellin whispered.

Vic smiled. It was a small smile, but it might had been his biggest all month. “Yeah.”

 

#### Sunday

 

II.

 

Greta Salpeter’s funeral was sunnier than Tom Gaskarth’s, by far. Though, as a precaution, the service had been held inside, and the burial was not until the afternoon. The morning sun hung low above the horizon, and the flowery fragrances that shielded the formaldehyde furniture of the funeral home burned Brendon’s nose as he walked in. He was allergic.

Dallon was at his side, dressed in his Sunday best, with a black suit and matching tie. He walked stiffly around Brendon as they maneuvered their way through the throng of people while Brendon nodded politely at acquaintances of Greta’s. One of them approached the duo.

“Can you believe it?” he sounded choked, and rightly so, as Greta’s body was laid out in the adjacent room. Even from a distance, Brendon could see how serene she looked, as though she were merely sleeping like a princess. Like a princess in all those fairytale stories she would tell Brendon about from her childhood when nostalgia got the best of them. Even in death, Greta Salpeter was beautiful.

“I know, Thomas,” Brendon sighed and tried to ignore the weakness welling up in his own eyes. He fought it, though, he had shed enough tears. Any more, and he could already see Greta scolding at him for angsting over something like her death. “I know how close you two were.”

“She was the love of my life,” Thomas lamented softly.

Brendon didn’t ask for the details, slightly confused as Greta had confirmed the turning of their relationship to platonic. Perhaps that was what Thomas meant…. “I loved her, too, man.”

Thomas’ face hardened, but he said no more as he found another friend in the mass of people and moved through the congregation to speak to them. Dallon looked quizzically at Brendon.

“Greta’s beard,” he said.

Dallon chuckled at that, “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“The itchiest beard she ever wore,” Brendon went on, trying not to giggle himself and appear rude at Greta’s funeral, but he had a slight suspicion she would want people laughing at her funeral. She always said, _“When I’m dead, I want it to blow over like a bad joke.”_

Maybe Greta had gotten her wish with Brendon and Dallon, in the foyer, giggling at Thomas Dutton’s expense, who was none the wiser to their merriment.

“Oh!” Dallon perked up and beckoned a figure over.

It was a short man with a giant mass of hair and a great amount of stubble on his chin. He looked like a monkey in a suit, and his actions were just as comical as he walked towards them.

“Brendon, this is Greta’s childhood friend, Ian Crawford.”

Brendon smiled and extended his hand, which Ian shook vigorously.

“Nice arm candy you’ve got, Dally,” Ian cackled wildly.

Dallon rolled his eyes and ignored his friend. “Nice outdated jokes you’ve got there, Een.”

“Oh-ho!” Ian’s laugh was shrill and garnered much attention from the parishioners. “He’s got jokes.” At that, he gave Brendon a friendly nudge with his elbow.

“What do you really want, Ian?”

“Besides, ogling your pretty friend here?” Ian winked. “I’m here to tell you, the hearse driver wants a word. Someone put the word out that you’re the best mortician around.”

“I wonder who that would be,” Dallon said dryly, and Ian chuckled.

“I swear, if he’s another incompetent who drops the coffin--” Ian guffawed, and Dallon wheeled at him, “And I swear if you ever hide inside a coffin and jump out at the cemetery again, I will personally bury you alive.”

“Oh, Dally, you’re too nice to me.” Ian fluttered his eyelashes.

Dallon glared at his friend one last time before apologizing and excusing himself to Brendon. Without Dallon around, Ian seemed to calm down a little until he seemed mildly normal to talk to instead of the quintessential man he had been in the mortician’s presence.

“You friends with Dally, then?”

“Nah.” Brendon shook his head. “Greta’s friend.” Brendon scrunched up his face. “How do you know Dallon? He said he didn’t have any friends in town.”

“Oh, I’m not in town. I’m passing through,” Ian explained, “I’m a roadie for a band, and we’ve had a short impromptu pit stop in Cooperstown. Big show in Monroeville tomorrow night, though. You should come.”

“Why not invite Dallon?”

“Dallon’s married to his job,” Ian rolled his eyes. “It’s been the only substitute he can find since his divorce. Pretty nasty one, too. She got the house, the kids, everything. That’s why he moved up, here.” Ian gave a nervous laugh, “And with the new hazing going around, who knows, business may be a-booming.”

“The papers have said it wasn’t hazing,” Brendon said.

Ian snickered, “Yeah. But people wipe their ass with the paper all the time, now don’t they?”

Brendon frowned at that, puzzled, and Ian gave him a pat and a wink before disappearing into the crowd of black that was formed around Brendon. Seconds later, Dallon returned. “Where’d Ian go off to?”

“Probably looking for an open bar,” Brendon muttered at the quirkiness of Dallon’s friend and the morbidity. Then again, he supposed that was the price at being friends with a mortician.

Dallon laughed at that. “You gonna be okay, there?”

“I just-- it’s hard to think I’m never going to see her again,” Brendon muttered, knowing he sounded foolish.

Dallon put an arm around his shoulders; it was a slow, apprehensive movement, yet it seemedd very comforting to the distraught boy. “I know. Gret’s at peace, though. She believed in heaven, Brendon. She believed in God.”

“I don’t know if I do anymore,” Brendon admitted softly.

“You have to believe in something.”

And, once upon a time, Brendon thought he had.

 

III.

  
The theater echoed with each step of his thundering feet as he made his way past the rows and rows of empty chairs. The stage was big and vast and made him seem almost miniature in the too open auditorium. The lights were dimmed around him, and the carpeted slope of the theater made his disproportioned figure all the more prominent. He ignored it, though, and instead watched her from the safety of the shadows.

She was graceful in her moves, her ballerina tutu fastened tightly around her waist and her tights making her legs look like they were fashioned straight from porcelain. He watched her toes dip and tip and twirl beneath her figure, the grace of her arms slow and enchanting like a Viennese waltz.

Ryan watched her fluid movements, cutting through the air like water in slow motion. Like a drizzling fountain. A curdling wave. The drizzle of rain pattering against the window. Ryan watched her liquid-like motions as though she were a stream of water in a vast ocean, swirling with the tide.

She was pretty, too, he thought, staring at Keltie. The pronounced muscles on her legs, her protruding collarbone, dainty waist, rosy cheeks, and big brown eyes (eyes that Ryan tried not to remind himself of). She twirled on her toes and nearly tipped over when she saw him, a big warming smile breaking out on her face before she leaped down from the stage and engulfed Ryan in a tight embrace.

“Ryan, what are you doing here?!” she squealed, absolutely delighted.

“I came to see you,” he said as though this was the obvious answer. Then again, after last night, it might be.

“Was a bit clumsy back there,” she chuckled, her face pink from embarrassment, as she flicked her hand abysmally.

“No worries,” he told her and took a seat in one of the theater’s chairs, crossing his legs, “You were amazing.”

She smiled again, giddy. “Thanks, Ryan.” She paused and chewed her lip for a second before, “Ryan, are you busy next Friday?”

Ryan tried to think that far ahead but the only thing he could think of was a term paper. He shook his head.

“Would you like to come see me opening night?” She was rocking back-and-forth on her heels, positively nerved by his presence. Idly, she brushed a strand of hair from her bangs behind her ear just to give her hands something to do under his stare.

“Sure,” Ryan said without hesitation and was pleasantly greeted as Keltie pecked his cheek and hugged him again, this time, tighter.

She skipped away to collect her bag and change from her sweaty dance clothes.

And it wasn’t until she had walked away and the auditorium lights had been doused that Ryan was hit like a head-on collision. Next Friday was Brendon Urie’s birthday.

 

IV.

 

He wandered down into the dining room fairly early, feeling disoriented and less than sedated as he grabbed for toast and threw it in the toaster, pushing down on the lever and sliding at the rickety card table that substituted for their dining room. No sooner had the toast been put down then Mike Fuentes walked into the kitchen, yawning and grabbing the carton of milk from the refrigerator before guzzling it down in large gulps.

Vic made a face. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Don’t worry, Vic. Cooties are only for girls,” Mike teased rumpling the other’s hair.

Vic batted away his advances. “Then how does that make you an exception?”

Mike laughed, “Oh, he’s got jokes, then? Cheeky bastard.”

Vic’s laugh rang with his. “Someone’s gotta have jokes in this family.”

“And here I thought my comedy routines were gold,” Mike sniffled mockingly as he slid in the chair opposite his brother.

“Yeah, well, cry me a river, Seth MacFarlene.”

Mike laughed again, but it soon dwindled out as he eyed his brother with a stern stare, “Mind if I ask what a boy was doing in your room, Victor?”

“What?”

“Last night,” Mike reminded him. “There was a boy sleeping in your bed, and you were on the floor.”

Vic remembered falling asleep on the floor with only a pillow and remembered waking up with a duvet thrown over his shivering body. It had never occurred to him that Mike had come in his room to tuck him in.

Kellin had left before Vic had even woken up- no doubt through the window as it had been left ajar that morning and let the damp September chill of the morning breeze in, fresh and crisp and moist with dew. 

“It was nothing, Mike. I was just helping a friend out.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“Vic.”

“Alright, fine. It was Kellin Quinn. He… he was hurt.”

(Vic had finally finished dabbing peroxide on the cuts and had convinced Kellin to take his bed for the night. Vic was used to sleeping in uncomfortable spots as he had grown up in a series of subsidized housing that all had one bedroom. His mother had gotten the bed and Vic and Mike were normally put out on the springy couches that creaked with every movement- that was, if they were lucky. Sometimes, he’d been reduced to laying with his Batman sleeping bag on the floor, curled up and staring at the ceiling where there were water stains from the leaking roof.

“Thank you for this,” Kellin murmured, sliding into the bed and pulling the blankets over his form.

“No problem,” Vic said, “I don’t like other people hurt.”

“I don’t understand how you do it,” Kellin yawned, rolling over. “Withstand the pain, that is. From… you know--”

Vic couldn’t even begin to explain it to the rich boy. How the pain felt refreshing compared to what he had to deal with on a daily basis. How the pain was a perfect distraction from the skeletal remains of his mother, decomposing on the couch right before his eyes. He couldn’t begin to explain the horrors of the Calderstones to the rich boy who probably had never gone a day without a meal and laid awake at night listening to his stomach growl….

“Someone has to bear the pain,” Vic said gently, “Someone always has to.”

“Makes you sound like a lamb up for slaughter.”

And maybe Vic was. A lamb in a field of wolves. “Nah. I’m not that special.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kellin said into the still of the night, “I still haven’t decided what I think of you yet, Vic Fuentes.”)

Mike eyed Vic as he explained all this to his brother before he nodded. “Does your friend know about Mom?”

Vic shook his head. “We-we’re not that close.”

“You’re a good kid, Vic,” Mike said, and he leaned over the table to pull his brother into a hug and mumbled into his hair, “And I promise you, when I get a better job, we’re going to be happy, Vic. You’re going to have your Ativan. No more heroin. No more Calderstones. And no more Obbo.”

“It’s fine, Mike. It’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Vic,” Mike whispered to his little brother just as the toast popped up from the toaster, charred black.

 

V.

 

They hadn’t seen each other since the burial, but on that Sunday afternoon, Jack Barakat knocked on Alex’s front door. It was drizzling lightly that afternoon, and the air was muggy and thick with humidity as it always was on the Californian coast. The grass was damp and squelched under his feet as he cut across the lawn to the front door and knocked, shaking out his sopping mop of hair and wiping his feet on the welcome mat.

“Oh, hello, Jack,” Mrs. Gaskarth greeted airily. Her lips were pursed and she looked like she’d been crying.

“How’re you Mrs. G?” Jack asked as she stepped back to let him in. He gave her a comforting smile.

“Fine, fine,” she lied. And it made Jack wonder if people always lied when someone else died. If it was proper etiquette…. “Alex is in his room.”

“Thanks.” He waved to her in an attempt to be cheery and hurried up the stairs and down the hall to where Alex’s room was. His door was closed, and Jack pushed it open without abandon.

The music was loud, and the room was dim. The curtains had been pulled shut, and Alex was laying in his bed, in the dark, with the stereo blasting New Found Glory to disguise his sobs that ricocheted off the whitewashed walls of his room, covered in a decorum of posters, both crude and not. 

“Alex?” Jack strolled over and turned the stereo down, so Alex’s sniffles sounded.

The boy rolled over and curled up in the fetal position on his bed, reminiscent of earlier in the week when the two of them had been at the Cubby Hole. “Go away, Jack.”

“Lex.” Jack frowned and walked over, sitting on the edge of his bed and patting his leg, giving it a firm squeeze, “don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Alex said, wiping his eyes and sitting up so suddenly that it startled Jack. He looked determined to prove something to the world.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Jack told him.

“About what?”

“About something.”

“Something?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop being cryptic with me, Jacky. That’s my job.”

“Yeah, well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not quite that easy.”

“I’m fine.” Alex wiped his eyes again, and he did indeed look fine. His eyes were only slightly puffy and glazed over with tears, but they were sincere in their honesty, as was the smile on his face. His eyes crinkled in the corners and glistened behind the mirror of tears. “What is it?”

“Well… I….” Jack couldn’t think of any way around it, so he spit it out rushed and quickly. “You kissed me.”

Alex’s smile dropped, and the crinkles in the corner of his eyes disappeared. His face fell. “W-what?”

“You kissed me,” Jack repeated and was afraid to hear his own voice. “W-when I was asleep last week… you kissed me.”

Alex looked horrified. He shook his head repeatedly and leapt up from his bed. “N-no! You don’t understand, Jack, it was an accident. I- I miss Lisa.”

Jack jumped up too, eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t, Alex. Stop lying. You stand there, always preaching about love… a-and here’s your chance for it, Alex. I-I’m not turning you away. Not anymore. You stand there, talking about love, well, here’s your chance, Alex! Fucking take it or throw it away.”

“What are you talking about, Jack?” Alex sneered. His voice was peaked and panicky, and Jack could see a tear slide from his eye. “I-I’m not a fucking queer!”

“You kissed me!” Jack shouted, out of his mind.

“Get out!” Alex screamed suddenly, pointing at the door, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, Jack. I’m not gay, and I’m not in love with you!”

He stomped over and pushed at Jack’s chest, letting out a sob of defeat when Jack’s lithe body adhered to his push and allowed himself to be pushed out of Alex’s room. The door slammed and the stereo blasted.

And Jack, he ran.

 

VI.

 

17 First Street was bustling with a humdrum of activity that evening. The smells of a casserole and steamed broccoli wafted around the kitchen, along with the aroma of coffee that seemed permanently attached to the room. Inside the sauna of a kitchen, Jon was checking up on the casserole, nearly done, as he prepared dinner for the very important occasion.

He had a cheesy apron that said ‘Don’t Kiss the Chef’ on it and a pair of oven mitts clasped tight in his hand as he watched the cooking dish like a hawk.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Spencer spoke up through a mouth a corn chips and hummus that Jon had laid out only minutes early. It was nearly gone, too.

“Yes, I can cook, Spencer.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Everyone can cook.”

“I can’t,” Spencer said as though that settled the argument.

“Sure, you can. You’d starve if you couldn’t cook.”

“Not since they invented the microwave,” Spencer told him with his own eye roll. “If you can’t microwave it, Jon, it doesn’t exist.”

Jon didn’t say anymore as he grabbed the pot of broccoli off from the boiler and began draining the steaming water into the sink. Spencer watched bitterly. Jon had never cooked a dinner at his arrivals, much less made Spencer a meal in all the years they had been friends. In fact, the only time Jon ever made meals for Spencer was if he had been drunk the night before or if he had exams that morning, but the cooking had never been this elaborate. Jon’s eggs were always anemic and undercooked, his meat overdone and stringy, and even the tea he sometimes made for Spencer was much too dark with much less sugar than the younger would had liked. In fact, Spencer can’t remember a time he had eaten a meal of Jon’s that hadn’t made him sick. But then again, Spencer thought wryly, wasn’t that love? Wasn’t love as simple as eating burnt foods?

“She’s here!” Jon called suddenly, and Spencer was snapped out of his thoughts only to hear the din of the doorbell throughout the house. Spencer hated Cassie Vandenboom already. Didn’t she know ringing the doorbell gave Jon’s two cats anxiety? Didn’t she know anything about Jon Walker? About his bad foods and his coffee addiction and the fact that he’d only learned to make a casserole this morning just to impress her?

He heard them greeting each other in the living room but refused to move from the island, mouth full of hummus-covered chips. He heard the sounds of lips smacking together and bit down a little too hard on the chip, teeth slipping roughly against his tongue.

And with eyes watering and mouth full of food, Cassie came in to greet him. She was a pretty girl, too, with long blonde hair that she’d pulled up for the occasion, and she was wearing a little black dress, as though she thought maybe this dinner was something a bit more private. Her makeup was overdone: heavily penciled lids, longer lashes than normal, and a deep shade of red lipstick that Spencer thought just looked ridiculous.

“Cassie, this is my new roommate, Spencer.”

She smiled as though she’d just licked a lemon and held out her hand. “Charmed.”

Spencer faked a smile, as well, as he grabbed her hand and said through a mouthful of food, “How long have you known Jon?”

“A-a couple months,” she said taken aback. Not to be outdone, she asked, “And you?”

“Years,” was Spencer’s simple answer, and he saw Jon’s puzzled face behind Cassie, as though he wasn’t sure what his roommate’s outburst had been from.

“So.” Jon clapped his hands together. “Dinner, shall we?”

They set the small table Jon had in his unused dining room, and Spencer realized he’d never actually sat down at this table before for an actual meal with his friend. They had always sat at the island, sipping coffee and trading laughs; Spencer was glad Cassie couldn’t taint that place of theirs.

“So, Jon.” Cassie eyed him and was talking through pursed lips. Already, her expectations for this dinner had been ruined by a third party. “I didn’t know you had a roommate.”

“Oh, Spence?” Jon began doling out servings of the casserole. “Yeah, Spence has been here for years; we’ve only just made the arrangements official. He comes with the place.”

Spencer smirked at that.

He wasn’t sure what made him hate Cassie so much (despite the fact she hated him for ruining the sex she had been expecting that night, for sure). Perhaps, it was merely jealousy at its finest. He had finally came to terms about falling in love with his best friend, and he had been beat out by some… bar slut. Spencer had thought himself lucky for falling in love with his best friend. Some sort of great romantic fantasy that would finally climax with Jon professing his love for him. Maybe Jon’s music career would take off, and Spencer would graduate college, maybe manage Jon’s budding career, and they’d live in a quaint home in Hawaii or somewhere. Get away from Cooperstown and the ghosts it held for everyone. 

“So, Spencer, do you attend Cooperstown University?”

“I’m a business major,” Spencer explained to her with an air of superiority. Jon was oblivious to it as he shoveled food in his mouth. “What do you do?”

“I’m an intern at the local recording studio,” she explained to him, a devilish smirk forming on her features. Spencer swore she was a witch or something. “I told Jon I could maybe get him in to record an EP or something, right, Jon?”

“Mmhmm,” Jon garbled through his food, “I was gonna tell you, Spence. I might be able to get a break. A couple songs recorded at a discounted price. Spence, this could be the beginning.”

Spencer faked a smile, but in reality, he wanted to lob his forkful of casserole right at Cassie Vandenboom’s face. Jon had always talked about recording music, and Spencer had always encouraged him, too. But the two of them had decided not to do anything too drastic until Spencer graduated from college. That way, the two of them wouldn’t have to ever part. That way, the two of them could stay together.

Already, Cassie was tearing them apart with her pouting lips and her coaxing words and her hopeful promises.

“Spence, this could be a great opportunity. Cassie knows people in the industry. She said she could put me on a tour this summer!”

“Th-that’s great,” Spencer lied, nearly choking on his broccoli.

Jon chuckled, “I always said you should’ve dropped out with me. School just holds you back.”

Spencer stared down at his plate, determined not to cry.

 

VII.

 

“So you think this has to do with the Santi murders? All because some kid who thinks he’s Sigmund Freud says so?”

“Freud was obsessed with penises, not murder,” Gerard corrected his partner, Ray Toro, as they sat in his Monroeville apartment after hours for some late night television and to discuss the case without the chief breathing down their necks for paperwork from their last case. The last case before Gerard had been committed…. He tried not to think of it.

“And this case, somehow, screams both,” Ray commented dryly.

Gerard snorted into his drink. “I’m serious, Ray. This could be a lead. You said it yourself, we got the connections that all fit.”

“Greta Salpeter: lesbian. Tom Gaskarth: head of an LGBTQ club on campus. But where does Jamia Nestor fit in? Riddle me that, and you might have me convinced.”

Gerard was stumped on that one. He had spent hours mulling over papers and documents and anything he could find on Jamia Nestor. Nothing linked her to homosexuality. Nothing. “Maybe… maybe she was an accident. The perp didn’t kill her. Maybe he got the wrong girl and stopped and ran away.”

“You’re really stretching the hypothetical, here, just to believe some kid.” Ray was impressed. “I haven’t seen you this dedicated in a while.”

“Well,” Gerard murmured, “I need a distraction.”

“Gerard, it’s been a year,” Ray muttered to his partner.

“A year, and it still hurts like hell.”

“We all have bad breakups,” Ray consolidated.

“Bert wasn’t a breakup. He was my life.”

“He was also your downfall. It’s best you two let the past lay where it is--”

“Dead and buried,” Gerard replied morosely, “like everything else I touch.”

Ray shook his head and snapped his fingers. “Getting distracted, here. Listen, why don’t we just pick up on this tomorrow. We can’t do much with this theory until Jamia is well enough to give us her statement….”

Gerard shook his head and lit up a cigarette, breathing out with a gust of smoke. “Or we get enough bodies.”

 

VIII.

 

The Mercedes-Benz cut through the roads of Cooperstown swiftly and smoothly, around sharp corners and wide bends. And with the windows rolled down, William could feel the warm heat of dusk settling in around them and wafting into the car. It was comfortable, the temperature. Gabe had picked him up only moments previous and had agreed to take him down to the beach, where they had met. Where everything had begun, just a week ago.

“Who’s Guillermo?” William asked as they neared the beach, and the white sands loomed on the horizon along with the frothy undertow.

“Who?”

“You called me Guillermo on the phone.”

“O-oh….” Gabe fidgeted. “That! Yeah, that’s the Spanish version of your name. I’m from Uruguay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, “we moved here when I was really young. Actually, I moved all over the place. Dad stayed here.”

“Why’’d you move so much?” William had never met anybody more fascinating, he decided.

“Boarding schools, really. Kept getting kicked out of them,” Gabe laughed, “I’m still the same prick as I used to be.”

“I don’t think you’re a prick.”

“Then you mustn’t know me too well.”

“People always say that,” William replied, “but you’d be surprised how much of a person you can find out about overnight.”

Gabe blushed at these words, considering the circumstances of their meeting, and William was all too familiar with a flushed face of embarrassment and shame. “What’re you a philosophy major, kid?”

“Nah, I’m a lit major.”

Gabe parked the car. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I like words. Besides, someone’s gotta say the words other people need.”

They got out of the car, and Gabe clambered atop the hood of the expensive automobile, patting the spot beside him for William. “You want to write stories, then, kid?”

“Maybe,” William said then, hastily, “and don’t call me kid. I’m not much younger than you.”

“Sure you are,” Gabe chuckled but dropped the nickname.

“From what I’ve heard, you still act like a kid.”

“I do. This pretty face can’t afford to get old,” Gabe laughed.

William laughed, too.

He stared up at the stars over their heads, but his attention was not kept long as the tides of the Pacific drew him away. He had always had a proper fascination with the ocean, the ebb and flow of the waters, the rippling of the sea. The way someone could be carried away if they pleased.

“I’ve never been on a date before,” William slowly admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was unpopular in high school.”

“I wasn’t, but….” Gabe hesitated, “I wouldn’t really call what I did ‘dates’.”

“Fair enough.”

Gabe stared into the distance for a minute. “Would you consider this a date?”

“I dunno,” William bit his lip, “was that you asking me out?”

“And if it was?”

“Then I might say yes.”

“Might?”

“Depends on your intentions.”

Gabe smirked, “Chastity belt still on, then?”

“Hardly your business for a guy who’s not on a date,” William retaliated.

“That’s okay.” Gabe relaxed against the warm metallic of the car beneath them. “I know a locksmith.”

William laughed aloud for Gabe to hear, and it carried down the coast of the Pacific, interrupted only by the wind that cut through in their little heaven, away from everybody else.

 

IX.

 

He held her hand tight in his.

The tears had long since dried from his face. Now, he simply sat there, at her bedside, listening to the gentle beeps from the heart monitor and the pulsating of hospital equipment over the hum of silence that permeated the room.

She was peacefully still, as though she were simply sleeping-- only Frank knew that was not the case, but still it was a nicer image than the one he had been haunted with early in the week when he imagined her mangled body, laid out on a gurney, awaiting his goodbyes.

Jamia moved little in her sleep. She was so doped up on morphine from the attack that Frank had barely gotten in three intelligible words with the love of his life. Still, he sat by her side, for as long as he could, wishing he could spend every waking minute with her and only her.

And maybe Bob. 

Definitely Bob.

She twitched slightly in her sleep, but the movement was gone in the blink of an eye and Frank was left to wonder whether it had even happened at all.

His phone rang, and he answered it quickly so as not to alert the stern nurses that worked the ward. They had barely wanted him to be allowed in her room alone, let alone making a humdrum of noise that might disturb their patient.

“Hello?”

“Frank, it’s Detective Way.”

Frank smiled. “Any leads, Gee?”

Gerard paused, caught off by the nickname, yet again. “No, Frank. It’s another body.”

“What?!” Frank leapt up from his seat, forgetting all about the nurses.

“It happened on the beach.” And Gerard hung up.

 


	9. Dates, Weather, and Bad Days

#### Monday

 

That Monday morning, three phone calls roamed through Cooperstown. The first was a long awaited hello. The second was a warming invitation. And the third, the third was lethal.

 

I.

 

“I’m glad you decided to meet with me.”

“I had no choice.”

“Yes, you did. You always have a choice.”

“And you know, I’d always choose you.”

The campus café was warm and cozy amidst the chatter of Monday morning students, guzzling down coffee before important exams and others were sat in front of glowing computer screens, the blue screens illuminating the dark shadows under their eyes from all-nighters and Sunday night parties to celebrate everything and nothing at all.

They sat in front of their coffees, the younger idly stirring in heaping amounts of sugar and the older, staring morosely at the milky brown look of his.

“Thanks, Trick,” Pete said, taking a sip from his coffee and smiling a smile reminiscent of Chicago skylines. “I-I meant everything that letter said, too.”

“I know, Pete.”

“No pressure, though.”

“No pressure?” Patrick’s chuckle was hoarse. “Pete, this is a lot of fucking pressure, okay?”

“The Trick I knew never used to swear,” Pete laughed.

His laugh was contagious because Patrick smiled at that. “The Trick you knew also would never have grown the balls to come all the way out to California for school.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Patrick paused. Then, “I’m glad I did, too, Pete.”

“So… music major, then? I always knew you’d aspire to great things.”

Patrick laughed again, “Pete, it’s just a degree. I’m not going to the big leagues or anything.”

“You could if you wanted to.”

“Pete, last time we talked about any sort of league, it had to do with blowjobs.”

“You could go to that league, too, if you wanted,” Pete insisted, and Patrick blushed.

“Pete, there’s no such thing as a blowjob league.”

“It’s an underrated sport.”

“How would you even score points?!”

“Do you really want me to explain this to you?” Pete’s brow rose.

Patrick’s face was beet red at this point. “No, Pete. N-never mind. I know what you mean.”

“Those lips are blowjob lips,” Pete said pointedly.

“Yeah?” Patrick licked said lips, “Well, that’s what your mom said last night!”

Pete practically howled with laughter, “You really haven’t changed, have you?”

“Not as much as you. I leave you alone for how many years, and all of a sudden my punk best friend turns… emo?”

“It’s not emo; it’s a lifestyle.”

“Pete, you straighten your hair now. And is that eyeliner?”

“Shut up.” This time, it was Pete’s turn to blush. “It’s called guy liner.”

Patrick giggled, “You wear more makeup than my mom.”

“Leave the mothers alone, Trick. What’ve they ever done to you?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “You’re too much for me, Wentz, you know that?”

“You like it,” Pete challenged him, his murky eyes glazed over with some unknown emotion that Patrick only ever remembered seeing on dark nights in Chicago when insomnia ran rampant in Pete and sleepless nights had driven him to near insanity.

But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Swept away with the tinkling of the coffee shop bell. Patrick blinked and looked away, hoping his face had drained of its scarlet color and had returned to normal. But it was a fruitless attempt in the presence of Pete Wentz.

 

II.

 

William held the phone to his ear, listening to the ring of the phone roaming across Cooperstown, to Evertree Crescent. A groggy voice answered, and William found himself smiling as he imagined Gabe, hair rumpled and lips smacking, answering the phone from his bed where he was haphazardly flung across it. Somehow, William imagined Gabe slept restlessly; he wasn’t sure why this was important, but it was nice imagery for a Monday morning.

“You have classes this morning,” William reminded him.

“What a shitty wake-up call.”

“It’s not shitty!” William insisted. “You told me to call you when I woke up.”

“I know what I said, William Beckett, I told you I’m not that old.”

“I don’t know, Gramps,” William joked, not being able to remember a Monday morning when he had been this happy before. “I thought I heard your hip just pop right now.”

“No, that was my boner.”

“…you should get that checked out, then.”

“Wanna come over?”

“I’m a lit major.”

“Wasn’t aware they had a major for dicks.”

“Yeah, it’s called Gabe Saporta.”

Gabe laughed, his voice was croaky and hoarse and still laced with sleepiness. William imagined him sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes, and contemplating whether or not to get a shower. “Where have you been all my life, Bill?”

“Apparently, off making sure dicks don’t pop.”

Chuckling, Gabe asked, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing.” William smiled. His heart was beating as he wondered what Gabe had planned for them tonight.

He liked hanging out with Gabe. Gabe helped him forget the bad things in his life, helped him laugh when Ryan was being morose, and helped him cope with his past. He supposed their hangouts were therapeutic for Gabe as well, and William so desperately hoped this wasn’t a bad case of nightingale’s syndrome.

“Wanna come over? I can cook.”

“Can you?”

“No. I was just going to order a pizza.”

William snickered, “I figured. Yeah, I’d love to come over.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this another date?”

“I don’t know. Do you want it to be?” William could hear the smile in Gabe’s voice.

Finally, just as he heard the bathroom door slam, indicating Ryan was awake and on the move, William said, “Yes.”

 

III.

 

He sat on the roof again, feet hanging off the Victorian house of Carnot Avenue, where the sun splayed its golden beams across the shingles. They were hot the back of his thighs; The Perks of Being a Wallflower sat in his lap, and his blue eyes scanned the words deliberately.

Kellin had sought refuge out on the roof again, this time in broad daylight, as his father was at work and unable to accuse him of sneaking out. The bruises on his body felt better since Vic had cleaned them last night, and Kellin couldn’t help but smile at the memory. As though the idea of somebody caring about him had been preposterous until last night. As though he had finally been awaken from the hazy nightmare his life had been. As though he had been resurrected and taken his first breath, just last night, wheezy and hitched with sobs, in the bedroom of Verdala Park.

He had left early, while Vic was still asleep, snuck out the window like the vestige of a ghost. He didn’t like the idea of imposing on Vic, was worried that once the morning light hit the boy wouldn’t be so fond of having Kellin sleeping in his bed. Like the last thing he would want in his house is the boy blackmailing him because of his addiction. But Kellin cringed every time he thought of meeting Vic in the bathroom, of watching the blood run from his wrist and stain the sink, of the scared expression on Vic’s face. The hopeless one.

Kellin didn’t like pain. He had never liked it. Had spent his whole life with pain from his father, and he didn’t want Vic to fall victim to that. Kellin had tried cutting, once, a long time ago. He had placed the blade to his wrist after his father had given him painful welts and a bruised eye that had people questioning him every hour of the day. Kellin had sliced into his own skin and had watched the river of blood run beneath his own doing. He had cried. And thrown up. And cried some more.

Nothing had ever been more painful in his life. Nothing had ever made him hate himself so violently. He couldn’t think of anyone else doing that to themselves.

“Kellin, can I come up?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

He stared down with surprise as he saw Vic Fuentes standing there on the cobbled path that led to his front porch. Trembling, he nodded and watched Vic make the precarious climb to the roof and plop himself down beside Kellin, smiling as though last night had not happened.

“What’re you doing here?” Kellin asked steadily.

Vic shrugged. “Classes were cancelled today. Don’t know why, but I’m not complaining. It’s a gorgeous day out.” At that, he leaned back on the roof and stared up at the cerulean sky over their heads. He squinted at the clouds rolling along.

Kellin placed his book to the side, marking his spot. “Wanna go to the pier?”

Vic twitched a little, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. Kellin wondered how hot he was inside the black piece of material.

“We don’t have to take our shirts off,” Kellin told him, recalling the welts beneath his own. “Just dip our feet in. C’mon. It’s too nice a day to sit here and bake.”

Begrudgingly, the two of them left the comfort of the roof and decided to walk down to the pier, which was only a few blocks down from the old vicarage. They walked in silence, though, as if everything that needed to be said between them had been communicated last night. Or through a single look in a bathroom mirror.

It was only ten minutes worth of silence as finally they were at the pier- a little wharf that ran along the ocean and allowed for families to stroll down, window shop, and maybe take cheesy tourist pictures with their children. They strolled to the edge before taking off their shoes and dipping their feet in the water, careful to avoid any stray jellyfish banking against the edges.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” Vic asked quietly, breaking the tension in the heated air around them.

“Not really.”

“It might help?”

“Doesn’t seem to help you,” Kellin responded. All he could think about were the cuts across Vic’s wrists, blaring red at him even beneath his sleeve.

“I-it’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“Vic?” Kellin’s voice was gentle and quiet, and the gentle swishing of the water nearly made it unintelligible to Vic. “C-can I see your wrists?”

“What?”

Kellin held out a shaking hand. “Y-you saw my scars. L-lemme see yours.”

It took Vic a minute or two to work up the courage to extend his arm to Kellin. His whole body was quailing beneath the other’s touch, but Kellin grabbed Vic’s wrist in a light, but firm, hold before he pulled up the sleeve of the hoodie with clumsy fingers. Below were the scars and still-there cuts, self-inflicted, by the other boy, himself. There was the grotesque artwork of a depressed boy.

And without thinking, Kellin dipped his head low and pressed his lips to each of the cuts and scars on the arm. The jagged curvature of them, the scabbing of skin around fresher ones, the white, barely there lines- ghosts of harm…. Kellin knew there was no medication for this addiction. But he remembered, from the first time he had cut, how much he hated himself. How ugly he thought he had looked with those ugly scars and stains that tainted his arm. How ugly he must look to other people. 

“Vic,” Kellin whispered into his skin, “I think you’re beautiful.”

He could feel Vic’s stunned persona beneath him, and he withdrew just as Vic snatched his arms away. He could see in him a fear that Kellin only ever attributed to himself in wake of his father. But it wasn’t the same because Kellin wasn’t hurting Vic. He was helping him.

“I’ve got to go,” Vic muttered. 

And before Kellin could call him back, Vic was running off, holding his wrist as though it stung.

 

IV.

 

He hated himself.

Really, he did. He had laid awake all night, going over in his head the incident between him and Jack. The fighting. The shouting. The denial. How could he have been so stupid? That had been his ticket to freedom-- his one chance to tell his best friend, Jack Barakat, how he had felt about him.

Jack had done it. Alex swore there had been a confession of love somewhere in all those words that Jack had shouted at him. Something about love and taking a chance. Alex had tried replaying those exact words over and over, but he couldn’t get the rights one down. They became warped and scrambled in his mind. New Found Glory was turned up on his stereo to drown out any outside noise, but his head buzzed loud with static.

There was something about Jack that drove him crazy. There was something about loving Jack that made Alex absolutely mad. And maybe it had not always been love between them, but after their encounter yesterday, Alex couldn’t think of a better word for it. Or maybe the feelings had always been there, Alex had just never had a word to describe them.

Something about Jack always made Alex snap, too. Whenever he thought of Jack, all rational thoughts just snapped from his mind, and he was left with nothing but his impulses. And it had been an impulse, kissing Jack, but now Alex wanted nothing more but to kiss him without abandon. 

Maybe, Jack making Alex snap made Alex want to leap. To take a chance. Maybe it was the answer to how Alex would seek out Jack and tell him that he wanted to take the chance. That he wanted to fall for Jack. That he wanted to leap without looking.

Alex smiled when he thought of Jack.

Tomorrow, he decided. He would call Jack tomorrow morning and tell him.

The phone inside his pocket rang, and Alex nearly jumped, thinking it was Jack already. But, looking at the caller ID, he noticed it was just Rian and answered it.

“Rian?” Alex heard the giddiness of his own voice, and it made his stomach curl in excitement. “I’m going to tell Jack.”

“W-what?”

“Tomorrow, I’m going to tell Jack I love him. I love Jack.” Alex could hardly keep himself still.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Alex.”

Alex frowned. “Why not?”

“Jack, well….” Rian hesitated. “Fuck, Alex, Jack’s in the hospital. He’s been attacked.”

 

V.

 

When Bob had called Frank and told him that Jamia was awake and wanted to speak to him, Frank had been elated. He had rushed to the hospital the minute visiting hours had begun and had trudged into Jamia’s room, with a giant smile on his face and a balloon in her favorite color (red) and a box of chocolates he knew she wouldn’t be able to eat (it was the meaning behind the gesture, though). He sat down beside her, tied the balloon to her bed, and looked her straight in the eyes as though expecting all their love to rekindle in a single glance.

“Frank?” she whispered. From the pills, her eyes were rolling around in her head, but it was supposedly normal in the medical world, so Frank tried not to acknowledge it.

“I’m here, Jamia. I was here last night, too.”

“I read the newspaper,” she told him, “A-about the investigation.”

“I’m helping with it,” he said proudly.

She smiled and laughed, breathlessly. “You’re reckless, Frank. Always have been.”

“I’m doing not doing it for us,” he said hastily, “I’m doing it for you.”

She smiled. “I’m glad. B-because this doesn’t change anything between us, Frankie. I’m sorry, b-but you deserve someone better.”

“You were the best,” he replied sadly.

“I wasn’t, Frankie.” Here, she swallowed and slammed her eyes tight. “I-I have something to tell you.”

“…what?”

“I never meant for it to happen, Frankie, but I-I was drunk. A-and I kissed someone, Frankie, while we were still together.” Frank couldn’t even find his voice, but she went on, “It was some girl. I-I don’t even remember her name. I just… I figured you’d want to know that before you started reckoning me as some angel or something. I’m sorry, Frankie, but you deserve so much better.”

“Jamia, I forgive you,” Frank muttered, but it was useless because her infidelity hurt. Frank had been nothing but loyal to her, and there she had been, keeping this secret stowed away for who knows how long.

“You don’t, Frank, and I don’t blame you.” With difficulty, she reached across and grabbed his hand. “You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t want your forgiveness. I want you to go out and find someone beautiful, Frank, someone who will love you.”

“But you were perfect….”

She laughed, “That’s the thing with perfect girls, Frankie, most of the time they’re just rotten. What you need is someone who’s broken. Someone who needs fixed. Because you made me a better person, Frankie. We just weren’t meant to be.”

Frank couldn’t cry, simply because he had shed all the tears all week. For Jamia. Always for Jamia. And now, she didn’t want his tears. She wanted him to find someone else who wanted his tears. It just didn’t seem fair.

“I’m a bitch,” she said.

“You’re not!” he insisted, sad and heartbroken, all because of her. 

“I am, and I want you to have a good life. Do that for me, Frank? Have a wonderful life. Find someone who loves you, who kisses you in the rain, who holds you at night and lets you be the little spoon like you love, who wants to adopt a dog with you, who doesn’t mind having to deal with your cynical asshole roommate all the time, someone who doesn’t mind smelling the smoke on your clothes, someone who won’t think it’s stupid to spend all your money on tattoos and cigarettes, and someone who will just love you uncensored, Frankie. I know you must hate me now, but do that for me, okay?”

Frank nodded. Jamia fell back to sleep, thanks to the drugs, and Frank sat there for a long time, thinking over her words.

 

VI.

 

Her house was on Freemont Street where the roads were slippery and wet as Ryan walked the pavements from Abbotts Close to where Keltie Colleen lived. It was a modest home with a tin roof where the rain clapped on and a porch with potted azaleas and geraniums that were nearly dead and overgrown in their homes. They hung from the porch roof and were moist from the fresh rain that was falling freely.

He knocked thrice before Keltie answered, with a smile, before she pulled him into a tight embrace, throwing her arms around him. “You made it!”

He chuckled, “Of course I did.”

She pulled him in and introduced him to her dog.

“I used to have a dog,” Ryan said and smiled, petting the dog and scratching behind its ears, “It died, and I buried it in the backyard.”

“That’s sad.”

“He was my best friend.”

“I thought Brendon Urie was.”

“What?!”

“Yeah,” she said, “I always saw you two hanging around together. Attached at the hip.”

“Me and Brendon, w-we aren’t. W-we never--”

“I thought it was cute. He fawned over you like a puppy.”

“He didn’t--”

“He did,” she giggled, “He followed you everywhere. You were his hero, or something.”

“That’s not how Brendon and I were,” Ryan whispered.

“Sorry to make assumptions,” she corrected herself. “I didn’t know him.”

Ryan did. And that’s what hurt with her words. Because Brendon did follow him around like a puppy, and Ryan had missed all the signs that he had loved him. And then he had broken his heart. Ryan had broken the only thing that had ever worked for him. He had ruined the only beautiful thing that had been in his life. And, just maybe, he regretted it. 

And so what if Ryan was pretending that Keltie was Brendon. With her big brown eyes that didn’t shine quite like his, and her graceful movements and stocky form that could never replace his…. He knew it was a long shot, but Keltie was the closest to Brendon that Ryan could have at the moment. The thought was semi-comforting.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ryan smiled and looked at Keltie, “You’re lovely tonight, you know that?”

She blushed, “You’re quite handsome, yourself, Mr. Ross.”

Because Ryan missed the flavor of Brendon so much, he did something both incredibly smooth and stupid. He leaned in and kissed Keltie. It was rough and hard and nothing chaste about it. She gasped into his mouth before fully adjusting to what Ryan was doing. Before she relaxed into his tight embrace and, grabbing the collar of his shirt, Keltie led him to the bedroom.

 

VII.

 

He gripped his hands tight, guiding them, correcting his mistakes. From them, pounded a beautiful melody, a simple tempo, and a catchy beat that filled the garage with its cadence. And then… _crash_. The cymbal fell from its stand and landed on the ground with a harsh sting, and Spencer’s face looked sheepish as he apologized. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Shane said, picking it up.

His name was Shane Valdez, and he was hot. He was a photography major with a history of drums that Spencer had asked lessons for after scrolling his Facebook for hours in an attempt to find someone to aid him in his quest for getting Jon Walker to fall for him. He was hot, with sweeping dark hair and he liked all he asked in return was for Spencer to be a model for one of his projects. Shane knew how to cook, was not a bartender, liked to play pool at the pool hall with male friends, and he knew he subscribed to a newspaper. His name was Shane Valdez, and he most certainly was not Jon Walker.

“I’m bad at this,” Spencer apologized.

“I was bad at it, too, when I started out. Mind, with a couple of lessons and a bit of my master skill, you’ll be better than Travis Barker.” Shane smiled at Spencer.

“Master skill?” Spencer chuckled, “Bit conceited, right?”

He shrugged. “You’re conceited, too, otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to model for me.”

“I’m a pretty face.”

“I think so.”

“I know so.”

“Cheeky, too.”

Spencer helped him with the cymbal and set it back into place. “Now, teach me drums, Valdez.”

“We still aren’t on first name basis yet, _Smith_?”

“We could be. It just depends….” Spencer smirked.

“On what?”

“On how fast you can teach me.”

“Well, if we’re talking like that, I might be taking nude photos of you by the time this sessions over.”

Spencer laughed, high and rich, a piquancy that was almost foreign in all his moping over Jon Walker. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

“Why’d you even want to learn drums in the first place?”

“This guy.”

Shane made a noise of acquiescence. “It’s always a guy.”

“And he wants to make music. And there’s this girl who might be able to help him, and well, he’s falling for it.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want to move straight to the nude pictures?” Shane asked, “Might make him swoon for you more than a little drummer boy.”

“But haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Drummers hit it harder.” Spencer winked at Shane, and the two of them laughed, accompanied by a drum roll that ricocheted off the walls of the garage, ringing out and masking their laughter.

 

VIII.

 

Laughter.

“I can’t believe you like this… shit.”

“Hey, Justin Timberlake is not shit! Take that back!”

“He is shit.”

“He brought sexy back!”

“When did it ever disappear?” William asked Gabe. They were sitting on his couch in Evertree Crescent, an empty pizza box at their feet, and Justin Timberlake music videos playing on his television. All in all, it was Gabe’s idea of an ideal date.

“Well, Guillermo, it disappeared again, and you brought it back for me.”

William shoved him. “Is that how you charm all the girls into your bed?”

“We don’t even make it to the bed.” Gabe winked.

William rolled his eyes and leaned back on the leather sofa, relaxing into the cushions and pulling his feet up onto the coffee table to mimic Gabe. “You really are the campus playboy.”

“Yeah, and if you listen to the tabloids, alcoholic.”

“A-are you?”

“Doubt it. Haven’t touched a drink since… since that night.”

William frowned and moved a hand onto Gabe’s shoulder, squeezing it in consolidation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Shaking his head, Gabe mumbled, “I just-- I want to pretend it didn’t happen, but I can’t.”

“W-what exactly happened?”

“I-- some dude made me… made me suck him off,” Gabe whispered, choking up a bit, “He had a knife…. I just…. I didn’t know what to do, Bill.”

“Hey,” Bill shushed him and threw his arm around him, pulling him close to his chest. “It wasn’t your fault, Gabe.”

“If I hadn’t been drunk….”

“Don’t talk like that,” William whispered, “Things happen. Alcohol’s dangerous, Gabe, but it wasn’t your fault you were assaulted. Don’t ever think like that.”

“I-I’m sorry.” Gabe hiccupped. “I’m ruining our date, aren’t I?”

“Only if you keep playing these Justin Timberlake videos.”

Gabe laughed through his tears and pulled back to peck William’s cheek. “Gracias, Guillermo.”

 

IX.

 

The lights of Cooperstown flitted by their peripherals as the car cut through the roads and past back lanes that led them through thickets of woods and up hills that had no outlets. Patrick stared out the window, lost in the streetlamps upon the side of the road, watching the white lights wash the road out in front of them.

He had agreed to take a drive to Monroeville with Pete, which wasn’t a long drive, but Pete had chosen every single back road they had passed. Patrick thought he was secretly buying them more time to be together. This was certainly a feat, as he had already prolonged their journey an entire hour. Patrick vaguely wondered how much gas Pete had already burned.

“Trick, I really fucking missed this,” Pete told him.

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

“I know.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I’m trying to.”

“…oh.”

Patrick sighed and pulled his vision from the road to watch Pete’s profile as he drove the car, a cigarette poised between his fingers. The window was down and blowing his black hair about his head. “You broke my heart, Pete.”

“I didn’t know I ever had it to break.”

“Don’t pull that on me,” Patrick said sharply. “You knew you had me.”

“No, I couldn’t imagine someone like you falling for me. But, apart of me was probably aware of the pull I had on you. I don’t even know anymore, Trick. Chicago was a blur of sleepless nights and too many pills for me.”

“I miss Chicago.”

“I don’t.”

The only sound was of the car humming against the road and speeding by at thirty miles an hour on the rocky road beneath the wheels.

“Do you think this was fate?” Patrick asked.

“It could be. If it is, I’m thankful.” Pete paused. “Do you think you could ever give me another chance?”

“I don’t know, Pete. This is some heavy shit, here.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you.”

“Like what?”

And suddenly Pete pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car, making sure his blinkers were on. Then he swiveled his body to look Patrick in the eye, and Patrick would have looked away had Pete not grabbed his chin in a firm grip. “I want to kiss you.”

Patrick gasped. “What?”

“I realized I never got a chance to kiss you in Chicago. And I wanted to so badly.”

Patrick shook his head. “P-pete, no, please.”

“Why not?” And Pete found himself pleading, pouting….

“Because.” Patrick blushed again, but the color was obscured by the darkness.

“Because why?!” Pete insisted.

“Because I’ve never been kissed before!” Patrick shouted, and silence ensued in the car.

Finally, “No one’s ever kissed you before?”

“No,” Patrick whispered.

“I want to be the first,” Pete whispered. And he leaned in, and just as Patrick thought their lips were going to touch, Pete pulled back. “And I want it to be perfect.”

And then Pete’s lips were facing towards the windshield again, and for some reason, Patrick felt disappointed. He hoped his heart rate would subside from its raid palpitations, but he doubted it as the car started up again and the drive to Monroeville continued.

 

X.

 

“So this was Greta’s apartment….” Dallon wondered aloud, stepping through the threshold and observing the quaint place. It was painted yellow and green with white trim around it. The kitchen was still clean with its white linoleum, and the refrigerator was still stocked. It was as if she was still alive.

Her coats were still hanging from the coat rack, and the ornate rug on the living room floor still had a vacuum cleaner sitting in it. Dallon fumbled with one his cigarettes as he lit it up with shaking hands and tried to compose himself in Greta’s apartment. In the only remnants of her left. In the empty shell of a home.

Brendon, too, felt sick upon entering it. He felt queasy as though he were intruding, even though she was six feet under. “I remember sleeping on her couch after the break-up.”

“Bad break-up?” Dallon asked timidly.

“Horrible.”

“I know,” he muttered, “Trust me, I know.”

“Ian told me.’

“About Breezy?”

“Yeah.”

Dallon nodded solemnly and continued to mill about the apartment, picking up random ceramics from the shelves before placing them back. “Suppose they’ll sell the place.”

“Suppose so.”

“I’ve always wanted a nice place to myself. Since the breakup, I’ve been living in motel rooms.”

“Cooperstown’s a great place to be,” Brendon amended before sitting cautiously on the couch, as though Greta was about to come back from work and throw her keys on the counter, looking at Brendon and pitying him from the breakup. “Besides, the murder… I guess.”

Dallon laughed, but Brendon supposed it wasn’t that morbid considering his profession. “Wouldn’t mind going back to film school, I guess.”

“You should. Go to school with me.”

“Won’t be so bad.” Dallon smiled.

Brendon looked away quickly and smiled back, still trying to remember Greta. To pay his respects. But it was impossible to imagine her walking through the door again when he had seen her corpse in the coffin. Pale and beautiful and… dead.

“Your break-up… are you over it yet?”

“I doubt it,” Brendon said.

“The days aren’t all that bad. I promise.”

They heard the storm strike up around Cooperstown, the thunder echoing outside past the window and the lightning illuminating the quaint beach town.

“There’s no such thing as bad weather,” Brendon whispered over the din of the storm. “Only the wrong clothes.”

Dallon chuckled, “That might be, Brendon.”

He smiled to himself and sat back on Greta’s couch, remembering his friend.

 


	10. A Mortician's Miracle

#### Tuesday

 

I.

 

The sun trickled down from the horizon that Tuesday morning, splaying the tight niche street of Abbotts Close in a spectacular array of amber color that flooded the asphalted sidewalks and the roof shingles of the campus housing and even the boxwood hedges that lined the pavement. Amid the golden sea, a figure strode down the street, tripping over his own feet, haphazard, and very late.

He broke into a run once he turned the corner onto the lane and made it all the way to the last house on the right before entering the place with a fumbling hand holding his key. He tried to remain silent as he tiptoed through the living room and into the kitchen, where he would be at peace to enjoy a slice of toast before his class in twenty minutes.

“Well, well, well, look who showed up.” 

Ryan jumped and turned on his heel to see William on the couch, face buried in a book, and looking up from said book with a seedy expression on his face.

Ryan’s jaw dropped. “I-I--”

“How was Keltie’s?” William smirked.

“We… didn’t do anything?” Ryan said lamely.

William chuckled, “Ry, you’re the only guy I know who gets a homerun and is embarrassed over it.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Ryan said hastily, proceeding with his toast-making antics as he shoved the slices into the toaster with more frustration than necessary. 

“Then what was it like?” William quirked a brow. “You never even stayed at Brendon’s place when you two were… well… you know.”

“Why must you always bring him up?”

“Because it’s been weeks since the break-up, and we’re still talking about it.”

“You’re more hung up on it than I am, Beckett.”

William narrowed his eyes. “That’s a damn lie, Ross, and you know it. You still haven’t removed the heart from his name in your contact list. For fuck’s sake, did you ask him to give you back your balls before the break-up?”

Ryan glared. “Stick up your ass, Beckett, or just Saporta’s prick?”

“Just my lovesick roommate.”

“I’m not lovesick! I’m allowed to have sex with whoever I damn well please.”

“Yes, Ry, I get it: you’re a big boy now. No more training wheels and training bras. And that’s completely fine.” William bit his lip, hesitated, and continued. “And I don’t mean to pry, but if you’re with Keltie for all the right reasons, then I’ll leave the Brendon-thing alone. B-but if you’re with her because… you think she’s a replacement, well, that’s just wrong.”

“Keltie’s a girl.”

“Yeah, but you’re not gay, apparently.”

The toast popped up from the toaster, but Ryan ignored it, gesticulating wildly in the air as he tried to fathom words that articulated his anger and annoyance. “Keltie isn’t rebound ass, Beckett! Brendon was never more than a piece of ass to me, anyways.”

“You didn’t think of him once last night?”

Ryan fumed. “Fuck you, Beckett!”

He stormed out of Abbotts Close, grabbing his bag and forgetting all about his toast.

In truth, William had been right. He had thought of nothing but Brendon last night, when he had been pressed close to Keltie in her bed, naked and warm and sweating. He had closed his eyes and thought of Brendon’s smooth, velvety skin and the beads of sweat that ran down his jaw and the way he tipped his head back and exposed his throat for Ryan to suck on greedily. He had thought about Brendon’s hands grasping at the sheets and his lyrical voice moaning loudly as Ryan pleasured him. 

He thought of their movements, fast and vehement and desperate. He thought of the headboard of the bed always knocking against the cheap wall (no, he had never spent the night at Brendon’s; but there had been plenty of evenings when Patrick had been out). He even thought of the post-coital cuddling, when Brendon would fall breathlessly against the pillows and Ryan would collapse on top of him, kissing the sweaty expanses of skin and scratching his nails lightly against Brendon’s hips, always asking for forgiveness for bruising them with imprints of his own fingers. And Brendon, he would always forgive.

Now, walking down the street in the morning warmth, en route to Cooperstown University, Ryan wondered if he was even worth forgiveness anymore.

 

II.

 

“So she definitely had a homosexual connection?”

“Yes.”

“So this is a Santi copycat.”

“Not necessarily a copycat,” Frank explained to Gerard. The two were tucked away in the library again, talking in hushed, avid voices about the murders. “Possibly a follower that went rogue.”

“But why not participate in the first set of murders?”

“Those were tests,” Frank explained, “and now the perp sees the precautions he must take.”

Gerard ran an aggravated hand through his hair. “Done a fucking good job of it, then. We’ve got shit for evidence.”

They sat their in solitude for much longer, hearing the serene emptiness of the library on a Tuesday morning. In order to keep comfortable, for Frank reveled in noise, he began flicking pages of books (rather loudly) and listening to the crisp pages beneath his fingertips. Gerard drummed his fingers on the table in retaliation, and they sat there in their landlocked table of noise. Listening to the sounds that surrounded them in the library, just the two of them.

“Why’d you let me on this case?” Frank asked. “You’re risking suspension or expulsion or--”

“Does it matter?”

Frank looked him evenly in the eye. “Yes.”

Gerard sighed, “I don’t know, Frank. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“Isn’t that what you have a partner for?”

“It’s different with Ray…. Ray was with me during a time in my life when no one else was… and he treats me differently because of it. With you, there’s no reservations.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know my past; you can’t judge me for it. Me and you, we’re equals.”

“You don’t treat me that way.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We’ve got time.”

Gerard sighed again, “It’s like this: you remind me of myself, Frank. A-and that’s scary when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen. I was young once, too. I was in love, too. And I had my heart broken, and that killed me.”

“Getting your heartbroken isn’t always the end,” Frank whispered.

“Yeah.” Gerard caught his eyes. His honeyed ones locking with Frank’s hazel ones into a pool of understanding. “But doesn’t it feel like it?”

“What was her name?”

Gerard bit his lip before muttering. “It was a he. His name was Bert.”

“What happened?”

“What always happens,” Gerard went on, abandoning the books they had been looking through for desperate attempts to solve the murder. Already, they had visited the new attack victim, Jack Barakat, but he was in a coma and unresponsive until further notice. They had interviews with a few of his friends today, and until then, they weren’t sure if the Santi murders were a definitive. Yet again, the killer was ahead of them. “Life. You grow up. You get introduced to things. Drugs, sex, power. You always want more. And then one day, you’re looking in the mirror, and you don’t know who you are.”

“Do you know now?”

“Yeah. That doesn’t mean I like what I see.”

Frank frowned. He’d been so caught up in his heartbreak with Jamia that he had failed to take a look around and see that other people had been hurt in the past. People would always have their hearts broken, and there would always be people in the world to do it. Frank wondered whether Gerard had ever broken any hearts.

“We should get back to the case,” Gerard muttered and averted his attention back to the books in his hand.

Frank nodded, but he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have his heart broken by Detective Gerard Way.

 

III.

 

The sea swished at their feet, and their toes dug into the moist sand surrounding the undertow. A gull cawed from the horizon, and the buoys towards the deep end of the ocean bobbed expectantly on that bright Tuesday morning. Brendon and Spencer meandered along the foamy length of the coast, shoes in hand and feet leaving a path that was soon washed away by the ebb and flow of the tide. It was rhythmic, the way their pace had synched up so perfectly with the waves.

“I like him,” Brendon went on, “He’s funny and lame and has stupid hair, but it totally looks cute on him, anyways.”

“Yeah?”

Brendon bobbed his head excitedly. “I mean, I know he’s only here temporary for now and that getting my heart broken is inevitable, but sometimes, Spence, you have to leap before you look.”

“Depends on how high the bridge is,” Spencer retaliated.

Brendon’s face hardened. “Did you look before you leaped when you recruited Valdez to help make Jon jealous?”

Spencer growled, “Brendon, it’s different. I love Jon Walker.”

“And I bet I could love Dallon!” Brendon insisted. “Sure, we’ve just met, but I could totally see falling in love with him at some point. He’s just… he treats me like I deserve something, Spence.”

Spencer sighed. It was true that Dallon treated Brendon better than Ryan Ross ever had. He didn’t ignore Brendon’s phone calls, he laughed at all of Brendon’s lame jokes, he even paid to take Brendon out once or twice to breakfast in Monroeville, and Dallon Weekes definitely wasn’t manipulative. That much appeared to be seen.

Not to mention, Spencer noticed, this was the first time since the break-up that Spencer had seen his friend smile. He wondered what had caused it.

(They sat together on the couch in his motel room; it was falling apart and raggedly, yet strangely comfortable as they watched the grainy television set where CartoonNetwork was playing reruns of the Loony Tunes that Dallon was laughing hysterically at and reminded Brendon strongly of Ian Crawford.

“You don’t need a relationship, Brendon,” Dallon explained, “You just need some good cartoons and Dr. Pepper.”

Brendon snorted, “I thought Mormons couldn’t have caffeine?”

He shrugged. “The temptations are much too strong, young Padawan.”

Brendon tipped his head back and laughed, “How’s you know Star Wars is the way to my heart?”

“I didn’t.” Dallon smiled. “It was a test.”

“And if I didn’t pass?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to share my Dr. Pepper with you.”

“Look.” Brendon sat up straight and looked Dallon in the eyes. His icy blues that made Brendon feel like he’d been shot up with novacaine and was spinning on top of arctic waters. “I have to be honest with you, Dallon, I-I don’t like Dr. Pepper.”

“What?!”

“It’s true. My heart belongs to Capri Suns.”

Dallon slowly nodded. “I can respect that. You gotta respect the pouch.”

It was Brendon’s turn to laugh, and it felt refreshing. His throat was finally used to feeling the rush of air into his lungs with each heave of laughter, and that had been a devastating change since the break-up. Ryan had always called him, the boy with the laugh. And ever since he had left, Brendon had lost his. Now, Dallon had brought it back, and Brendon knew what he had to do.)

When the two of them had walked far enough along the beach that Cooperstown seemed to be nothing more than a blur in the distance, they turned around to make it back to the town. The city that had broken both their hearts.

“Bren? Would you ever talk to Ryan again?” Spencer asked.

“I don’t see that point. That chapter in my life is over. He hurt me, Spence.”

“I know, but sometimes forgiveness is a virtue.”

“And sometimes, it’s a vice.”

Spencer nodded because, really, he had nothing else to say to that. All he could think about was Jon Walker and Shane Valdez. Vices and virtues.

 

IV.

 

He sat up high, surrounded by dozens of branches and full-blossoming leaves of the peach tree the fragranced every spring. Only, it wasn’t spring, and he sat amongst the leaves that were turning brown and red and light pinks that tickled his face as he made the precarious steps on the tree to the thick branch that sat nearer to the top, where Kellin could sit properly and stare down at the abandoned railroad station that ran through the Californian town and contemplate things he couldn’t contemplate on the roof of his house.

Kellin liked climbing. He liked sitting at altitudes in order to assess things. Everything seemed lighter when you were in the air. Kellin liked that feeling of floating above everyone else. It was the closest high he could get without drugs. It was a feeling of adrenaline mixed with sedatives. A Molotov cocktail of delight.

He had come up here to think. It was always peaceful, and he was able to do it uncensored and without abandon and without the looming presence of his father in the house. Without his fists that swung or his words that cut like blades upon wrists. The bruises on Kellin’s ribs had healed up to some extent, thanks to Vic’s tendering of them that night when they were still fresh. That night when Kellin slept on Vic’s side of the bed. That night when Kellin had dreamed about the Mexican boy.

Kellin shook his head and tried not to dwell of Vic; he hated doing that. He hated thinking of anything that had to do with love and relationships and anything that could result in pain or heartbreak or loneliness. Ever since Katelynne had cheated on him, he didn’t want to put himself back in a position of getting hurt again.

But it seemed like he was becoming fond of this boy. His ship was sinking, and Vic was the anchor, holding him in place.

Trying not to think about Vic, Kellin diverted his attention to another memory. It was a poignant memory he thought about when he got lonely. It was about the time he climbed this tree, and there was another boy sitting on the limb, swinging his feet and staring up at the tangerine sky with tearstains on his cheeks.

This boy, he was a year or so younger than Kellin had been, and he was crying because he had this wonderful brother. He had this sad, sad brother who was wonderful and magnificent and couldn’t see it himself. He also had this mother who was addicted to drugs and often forgot she had sons, and her sons had to support her and take care of her and watch her die.

And this mother’s drug dealer, he had come into the house and touched the wonderfully sad boy. He had hurt this beautiful boy.

Kellin remembered the way the brother had talked about this boy who had been hurt and hit and raped. And he had cried for his brother, and Kellin had consoled him, had put an arm around him and lied and said it was going to be alright. And maybe it would be alright for the brother, but the boy would forever have scars.

He remembered the brother choking out three words as the breeze whisked by them and shook the leaves of the peach blossom tree. He remembered him whispering to the absent boy, _“I’m sorry, Vic.”_

 

V.

 

“You made it.”

“Hardly.”

“Don’t be such a teenage girl, Alex,” Rian reprimanded.

“Jack would’ve liked me being a teenage girl,” he murmured sulkily, “he liked tits.”

“Jack still likes tits,” Rian sighed, “He’s just… unable to hold any, at the moment.”

“That’s the nicest way to put, ‘in a coma.’” Alex glowered.

Rian groaned, “I’m trying, here, Alex. I know you just lost your brother, and you blame yourself for that. And now you’re blaming yourself for what happened to Jack--”

“Had I not yelled at him, this would never have happened. He would never have run to the Cubby Hole, and he would still be here with me.”

“The papers said Jack wasn’t an accident, though,” Rian argued, “The killer would’ve found a way to get him.”

“I would have saved him,” Alex whispered, “I would have taken a bullet for Jack.”

“He’d do the same for you.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”

“Or maybe he’s just in love,” Rian suggested as they sat in the waiting room at the hospital. It smelled like antiseptic wallpaper and cough syrup and acrylic carpet, and the plastic chairs in the waiting room stuck to their sweaty backs from the September heat.

“I wouldn’t love me.” Alex fiddled with his hands. “I’m a jinx.”

“You’re not a jinx, Alex. You’re just fine. You’re whatever made Jack’s eyes light up when he saw you.”

“And now I can’t even tell him that he lit up mine as well.”

Rian continued rambling off excuses as to why this was not Alex’s fault and how everything would be alright, but Alex zoned out as he listened to the computer-clacking of the secretary at the desk and the sound of printers and fax machines and wheelchairs rolling down the linoleum floors. He tried to zone out of the fact that he was in the hospital, and somewhere, floors above him, Jack was attached to all these machines he was hearing and that he was in a coma and unresponsive and… not alive.

It was the only word that Alex could think of that could describe Jack at the moment. Because he might not have been dead, but any Jack that wasn’t running around and screaming about penises and big titties was as good as dead to Alex.

Alex tried to cloud his guilt and tried not to think about how all this was his fault. Instead, he tried to think about the lively Jack that he remembered. The lively Jack that had been his best friend.

(The campus carnival was alive with lights and sounds and cheers and students milling about the various games and stalls that were set up. There was even a cheesy bounce castle and an inflatable slide that Jack and Alex had just gotten up from, rumpled and laughing and smiling.

“God, I haven’t been on a ride like that since your mom last night,” Jack barked.

“Hey, my mom’s a nice lady.” Alex elbowed his friend.

“I know.” Jack winked. “I found out last night.”

“I hope you wore protection,” Alex chortled, “Last time, you ended up pregnant.”

“Alex!” Jack yelped. “We don’t talk about that. Jack Jr.’s in a better place now. The coat hanger gave him a goodbye kiss from his mummy.”

“Yeah, but Little Jack’s not in a better place.”

“Little Jack was in your mom last night.”

“It’s creepy that you named your aborted baby and your dick after yourself.”

“It’s creepy that no one’s questioned how I have an aborted baby.”

“They just don’t remember the two-year long pregnancy you endured.”

“I spent all of high school fat and pregnant,” Jack sniffled mockingly, “and they don’t even remember that I couldn’t make it to prom.”

“Hey! I was your prom date!”

“Only because your cousin didn’t want to go with you.”

“Yeah, and my mom didn’t want to go with you!” Alex stuck his tongue out, as though that settled the matter.

Jack laughed. It was a laugh that sounded like carnival music and smelled of caramel apples and Alex had never been more in love with a laugh than he had been in his entire life. 

They’d been at the carnival for the better part of the night, wandering around and making shitty ‘your mom’ jokes at each like they were in high school all over again, granted they were finally sophomores in college and the second year had been much better than the first where they had gotten lost and had each put up with unbearable roommates before moving back to their respective homes for their second year.

And Alex had watched the lights of the campus carnival twinkle and reflect in Jack’s pupils. The way they had dilated every time that he and Alex had caught each other’s eyes.

“One day, I wanna get away from all this, Alex,” Jack murmured as they wandered over to the hill near the carnival and took a seat in the damp grass from yesterday’s rain.

“We will, Jack. One day, you and I, we’ll run away from all this.”

Jack laughed, “You watch too much Peter Pan, Lex.”

“And for someone who watches cartoons religiously, you don’t watch it enough.”

“I find that Disney makes people question my manliness.”

“What manliness?” Alex snorted.

“Sorry,” Jack said, “it’s hidden by my vagina.”

Alex laughed, and he wished his laugh was half as magical as Jack’s was, but it sounded dull and boring next to his laugh. Jack’s laugh was like the sun. Jack was like the sun, and everything revolved around him (in a good way). He could burn and scorch if he wanted, but he could also warm and brighten anything he wanted, too.

And Alex, he was the moon. Cold and dark and empty.

But when Jack was staring at him and laughing at his lame jokes and talking about running away to Neverland, well, Alex couldn’t help but feel like the day had met the night.

 

VI.

 

They sat on his couch, feet up on the coffee table, and watching reruns of _Jersey Shore_ that Jaime taped for the sole purpose of making fun of it later at night when he was bored and lonely. Mike had suggested he take up masturbating, but Jaime claimed he felt self-conscious when he masturbated, as though his hand wasn’t as good as a girl was.

“Of course it’s not,” Mike laughed, “but it’s not supposed to be. Are you self-conscious about your dick size, too?”

“No! I measured that.”

“Average?”

“Average.”

Vic crinkled his nose. “I don’t want to hear about your penis sizes?”

“What’s wrong… not so good in the sack, Vic?”

“You know I’m a virgin, Mike,” Vic scowled, “and so are you.”

Mike wagged a finger at him. “I never fuck and tell.”

“Mike, the only way you’re losing your virginity is if I hire a prostitute for you,” Jaime cajoled.

“Yeah? Well, I think you’d probably be too self-conscious to hire one, Jaime.”

Jaime ignored him and turned his attention back to the television set. It had been his idea to invite the two brothers over for some bantering conversation and terrible television and banana milkshakes (with blowjob jokes automatically included). Waiting for Mike to retire from his job, Vic had finally told Jaime about Kellin Quinn and how Kellin made Vic feel strange and unsure and made him doubt everything he’s ever believed in in his life. Jaime had laughed and said Vic had a schoolgirl crush.

Vic hoped he wasn’t right.

“Jaime, has Kellin told you about the boy I found in his bed?”

Vic felt his face heat up. He hadn’t told Jaime about that. 

“Vic, you player!” Jaime clapped him on the back.

“I-it wasn’t like that. I slept on the floor,,” Vic stammered.

“Did you want it to be like that, though?” Jaime asked, already having assumed the boy was Kellin Quinn.

But Vic couldn’t answer because he honestly didn’t know anymore.

 

VII.

 

Frank Iero returned to work that Tuesday evening at the pet store, where Bob Bryar (whose parents owned the place) was also scheduled to work that evening. Around the familiar barks of dogs and mews of cats and even the normally irritating tweeting of birds, Frank found comfort since the incident where Jamia had admitted to cheating on Frank and shit on his heart.

“The dogs missed you, Frank,” Bob said when Frank approached the register and leaned against the counter, staring around at the comfortable shop.

“I think someone else missed me, too,” Frank teased.

Bob glared. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I need something to cheer me up, Bobby. Jamia finally admitted her connection to the Santi murders. She cheated on me… with a chick!”

“That’s hot!”

“I wasn’t included in it.”

“That’s not hot,” Bob corrected himself.

Frank groaned and wandered over to the dog kennels where he pulled one out and hugged it close, cooing to it and showering it with kisses. The dog yipped and licked him playfully. “And Detective Way is driving me crazy.”

“How so?”

“He acts like I’m scum one second and then I’m his best friend, the next.”

“I do that to you.”

“Yeah, but you’re Bob and you hate humanity, so it’s okay.”

Bob seemed pleased with himself. “How do you know he doesn’t hate humanity?”

“Because he’s trying to give hope in a hopeless time.”

“And is that enough?”

“Sometimes,” Frank muttered, “but sometimes it’s not.”

  
VIII.

 

Evertree Crescent had calmed down immensely over the past week. Parties were dead and buried, and the refrigerator wasn’t stocked completely with nothing but alcohol (in fact, someone had gone grocery shopping and filled up the kitchen with food for a moderate diet). In fact, Room #123B had never been more meticulously cleaned in its entire existence.

Pete was in the kitchen, pulling random sweets from the cupboards, piling them up in his hands, and wandering over to the couch. He’d been going to the gym every night with Gabe for the past week and thought it okay to have himself a cheat day with carbs. He didn’t much care about his weight to begin with, but ever since he had seen Patrick, Pete had realized he looked like an emo slob who had done nothing but drink and sit in his house working on term papers (which he had done). 

But Patrick was back, and Pete didn’t want a repeat of Chicago.

He opened a bag of licorice up and shoveled a few in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as his roommate strolled into the room and flopped down on the couch beside him, grabbing himself a handful of licorice.

“How’s Patrick?” Gabe asked through a mouthful of food.

“How’s William?”

“William is sex on legs, that’s what he is.”

“You haven’t even fucked him yet!” Pete accused.

“We’re friends, Pete, this has nothing to do with sex.”

Pete chuckled, “He’s got you whipped.”

“Nah, he just made me realize the world doesn’t revolve around pissing daddy off.”

“Good for him.”

“So how’s Patrick?”

“Scared,” Pete answered, “of getting his heart broken.”

“Ouch.”

“What should I do?” Pete asked. He had abandoned the sweets (which Gabe had stealthily stolen) and was gorging himself wolfishly.

“Do what you do best, Pete. Write him a letter.” 

Pete smiled and clapped his roommate on the back. “Thanks, Gabe.”

“Anytime.” The Latino man stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going on a hot date with my Bilvy.”

Pete didn’t even ask about the nickname as Gabe threw on his purple hoodie and exited the penthouse. Instead, he pulled out his composition notebook, ripped out a page, and scribbled:

_Dear you,_

_Here’s mine. It’s yours._

_Xo, me._

And on the paper, Pete drew a heart.

 

IX.

 

“Jon, this is Shane. Shane, this is Jon.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure.”

Spencer smiled as he looked between the two men. They were in Jon’s (and Spencer’s) house on First Street, and Spencer had invited Shane over for dinner as a retaliation for having to spend the night with Cassie. Jon had thought nothing of it and had happily prepared a dish of lasagna for the night. Spencer had glowered at that.

In fact, he had nearly seethed when Jon said, “I’m so glad you’ve found someone, Spence. You deserve happiness. You’re always brooding.”

Spencer had nearly torn his hair out, at that statement.

Now they sat, on that Tuesday night, when Spencer had classes the next morning, at the dinner table with its fancy tablecloth and placemats and matching china set upon it. The lasagna was finished and on the table, a slice on each of their plates, and everybody was fidgeting in their seat for conversation.

“Shane plays music,” Spencer said abruptly.

Jon raised a brow in interest. “You do?”

“It’s a side thing,” Shane corrected, “I’m a photographer.”

“That’s ambitious,” Jon commented, “Spencer did say he was going to model for you.”

“Spencer’s perfect for a model.” Shane smiled at him.

Jon laughed, “That’s if you can get him to sit still.”

Shane laughed with him, and Spencer frowned. Jon was supposed to hate Shane. Jon was supposed to be jealous that Spencer had found a new friend and kick Shane out. They had scripted this out and prepared for it punctiliously.

Instead, they were sat here, eating their lasagna and getting along. Laughing. Joking. Easy conversation.

Spencer hated them. The both of them.

 

X.

 

He ran. Faster than he had ever run in his life. His legs pumping, sweat pouring down his face as he climbed the never ending set of steps. He climbed and climbed, feet pounding on the stairs and hands abandoning the railing, which was slowing him down.

Finally, making it to the top, he ran down the corridor, pounding on the door in front of him. Pounding. His blood was pumping furiously. His head was throbbing. Everything about him was twitching and shaking with anticipation.

“Hello?” Dallon Weekes opened the door to his motel.

And before he could get another word out, Brendon Urie crashed their lips together.


	11. Three Little Words

#### October

 

#### Thursday

 

“You’re cute.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“I’m _endearing_.”

“Oh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Shut up.” Brendon stuck his tongue out at his new boyfriend. “And to think I called you cute.”

“I am cute,” Dallon mocked back eliciting nothing more than an eye roll from Brendon as he fell back against the squeaky motel sofa that the two were propped on, watching some television rerun that hardly kept their attention.

In fact, Brendon’s eyes kept falling over to the mortician’s form more often than not, and each time he could feel a blush creep upon his cheeks. The two of them had only just started their new relationship a week or two ago; yet the stormy October winds had seemingly blown them into an endless honeymoon phase that involved hand-holding and kisses on the cheek and kisses in the autumnal storms (all the stuff Ryan never wanted to do, Brendon thought sardonically).

“Dallon?”

“Mm?”

“How much longer are you staying in Cooperstown?” Brendon asked. “I mean, surely you miss your home?”

Dallon paused. “I was homesick,” he said slowly, “but in all honesty, I think I was just lonely, Brendon, a-and then I met you.”

Brendon blushed. “Shut up.”

“It’s true!” Dallon insisted, swiveling his body towards the music major with earnest in his eyes. “A-after the divorce, I was so lonely, Bren. Nothing made sense. And then we met. And then we kiss. And fuck, I’ve been dizzy ever since.”

“Dizzy?” Brendon bit his lip.

“I don’t know how else to describe it, Brendon. I mean, I spend my whole life looking at dead bodies. Fuck, I started to feel dead, Brendon. You just-- you made me feel alive.”

Before he could help it, a smile like a watermelon spilled onto Brendon’s face and he inched towards Dallon on the couch to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “That’s a lot of emotion for being with each other a little over a week, isn’t it?”

“There’s something about you, Brendon,” murmured Dallon. “I’m not saying it’s love, and I’m not saying it will ever be. I’m just saying that this moment, right now with you, I don’t want to lose it.”

Brendon smiled against his lips as he went to deepen the kiss, tangling his fingers in Dallon’s chestnut locks and feeling the other man’s arms encircle around his waist. He could feel the warm press of their bodies against each other and vaguely he could hear the volume of the television droning in his ears even as he tried to bask in this moment with Dallon. Even as his tongue slipped into Dallon’s mouth and the kisses became rougher and more passionate and more… real.

This was the first time Brendon had felt truly and honestly alive in quite some time. Ever since the break-up, he had been floating through life in a stupor of depression, drowning in thoughts of Ryan and memories and what could have been. But now, with Dallon’s teeth tugging at the bottom of his lip, Brendon couldn’t even think of another person or another moment besides the one at the moment.

“Don’t you want to take this slow?” Dallon breathed as Brendon straddled him.

And with a wicked grin, the younger shook his head, fingers already undoing Dallon’s belt.

 

 

II.

 

 

They met each other at the pier. It was still early in the morning, yet the sun had risen to its succulent amber glow that swallowed the sands of the beach and glimmered in the white tides that made their way to the shore. The rotting wood of the pier slapped beneath their sandals as they took a seat towards the end of the dock, feet swinging precariously above the waters.

“You wanted to talk.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s about Brendon.”

“He wouldn’t want me talking about him to you.”

“I know,” Ryan said hastily, “but this is important, Spencer. You know I wouldn’t normally ask.”

Spencer sighed, “I guess I should feel honored. I mean, Ryan Ross doesn’t even bring his dates to the ocean. Romantic.”

Ryan scowled, “This isn’t about romance. This is about Brendon.”

“Oh yeah,” Spencer continued sardonically, “I forgot: that’s such a separation for you. Is Brendon still lumped in the one-night stand category, then?”

“Fuck off,” Ryan snarled as the water lapped lasciviously at their feet.

“You broke his heart, Ryan, and you expect me to sit here and listen to your half-hearted apologies?”

“This isn’t an apology!”

“Then what is it?!”

“A fucking confession!” Ryan screamed, and before he could help it, the words escaped his lips, “I love him, Spencer. Okay? I love him, and I fucked up. I know that, b-but I don’t know what to do anymore. I love him, and it’s driving me crazy.”

Spencer stared, mouth agape, for a moment. It was as though he couldn’t believe the words coming from Ryan’s lips. In all honesty, Ryan couldn’t believe it either. He’d spent so many months burying the truth from Brendon that he’d almost fooled himself into believing that Brendon had been a temporary thrill. But now, the emotional repression was driving him insane.

He’d tried replacing Brendon with Keltie. She was cute and a good lay and anything Ryan might look for in a girlfriend. There was just one flaw with her: she wasn’t Brendon, and nothing Ryan could do could change that about her.

She wouldn’t always laugh at his terrible puns and she wouldn’t get hyper from too much caffeine before staying up most of the night talking nonsense. She wouldn’t watch horrible cartoons and put too much sugar in her cereal or even whine incessantly for coffee (yet would always be too broke to buy her own). Keltie could never be Brendon. Brendon, with all those quirks that Ryan had, somewhere along the line, fallen in love with.

Finally, when Ryan felt the weight of the silence, Spencer spoke, “You love Brendon?”

“And I don’t know what to do,” Ryan finished for him.

“Not much you can do, Ross,” Spencer said, “You broke his heart, and you lost him. Brendon’s happy now.”

“Oh.” Ryan’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He felt the salty air choke him and constrict his lungs until he was sure he was hyperventilating in front of Spencer Smith. He’d lost the only thing he ever really cared about.

That, and he’d hurt Brendon Urie.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Spencer shrugged as he stood up. “Sometimes, you win some and you lose some.”

“Love’s not a game, Spencer,” Ryan snapped, irritated and forlorn.

“No,” Spencer agreed, turning to leave, “but it is a fucking war. And that’s the thing about war. Sometimes it’s better to be dead than broken….”

 

 

III.

 

 

His steps were cautious, timid, and quiet. Yet they echoed loudly around the linoleum hallways, slapping against the tiles relentlessly with ever stride he took. Alex Gaskarth tried to ignore the way his footsteps matched the beating of his heart, or the way his heartbeats resonated loudly against the whitewashed, anti-septic peeling wallpaper. He’d returned to the hospital after another day of sitting in the waiting room, refusing to see Jack.

But now, with Rian at classes (and a shot or two of whiskey), Alex felt like he could do it.

He could see his comatose Jack.

But with each step closer to Jack’s room, Alex could feel the fear gnawing at his insides once again. The fear of reality. The fear of being faced with Jack’s body: cold and dead and unresponsive. The opposite of everything Jack was; the opposite of every memory of Jack he held. He slammed his eyes shut as he found himself at the threshold of the room, his palms were sweaty, and he could feel his stomach doing somersaults.

He and Jack used to be inseparable.

Now, Jack was hooked up to machines to keep him alive.

Alex knew Jack would’ve hated that. He would’ve made some joke about euthanasia, saying he’d rather be dead than have someone feeding him and cleaning up after his shit.  
Alex would’ve laughed and said that people fed Jack and cleaned up his shit anyways.

And Jack, he would’ve fucking laughed. He would have; Alex knew that for sure.

“Do you need any help, sir?” a kind nurse, down the hallway, asked.

Alex shook his head one last time before taking a deep breath and entering the room.

Already he could hear the steady pulsating hum of machinery and low beeps of monitors. Already Alex could feel his muscles tense and his insides crawl and his legs quake beneath his weight. Feeling ready to pass out, he made for the closest chair. The one closest to Jack’s bed.

And that’s how Alex saw Jack for the first time since the accident. He was laying in bed, breathing into a tube. His arms were limp, by his sides, and an IV tube extended its way from one of his forearms. On those same arms, Alex could see the faint lines of cuts and the beginnings of scars from the attack. In fact, just barely peeking out from the sleeve of the hospital gown was a cleaned up gash that looked like it had newly been stitched. Alex felt sick.

But he didn’t run out of the room. He didn’t think he would have the energy to make it down the hallway. Instead, with trembling fingers, he reached forward and took Jack’s hand in his, feeling the familiar warmth that didn’t respond back to his touch.

Finally, Alex found his voice. “H-hey there, Jack. I-it’s me.”

Jack didn’t say anything.

Alex tried to keep his cool. “You’re going to be okay, Jack. A-and we’re all here for you. I’ll always be here for you.” Alex’s bottom lip wibbled. “You need to get better soon, Jacky, okay? You need to come home.”

He squeezed Jack’s hand tighter, as though afraid he would lose his best friend again.

“You have to get better,” Alex choked desperately. “Please, Jack. I-I’m so sorry you’re here. This is all my fault. I never wanted this to happen to you, a-and all because I was too afraid to admit that I… fuck, Jack, _I love you_. I love you, and I miss you. Oh god, please come home, Jacky.”

But Jack could do nothing.

 

 

IV.

 

 

“I want you to stay the night.”

“The sun’s still out.”

“I know that! But… later… when you always have to leave. Stay?”

“Gabe….” William sighed, running a hand through his shaggy locks. They were on the veranda of Evertree Crescent, reclining in chairs and feeling the humidity of another Californian October. Gabe had already shed his shirt and claimed to be working on a tan before promptly teasing William about being a vampire. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is. I like you, and you like me.”

William laughed. “You’re so sure of yourself.”

Gabe rolled his eyes and continued, “Of course you like me, Guillermo. That’s why you haven’t sucked my blood yet.”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“You always leave before night. You’re a daytime vampire.”

“I’ve stayed over plenty of evenings!”

“But you’ve never spent the night!” Gabe whined, “With me. In my bed.”

William bit his lip and stuttered out, “G-gabe, I’m not ready for that. I-I’m not ready for this.”

“What’s ‘this’?”

“ _This_!” William nearly gasped, “Whatever we’re doing here.”

“We’ve been going on dates,” Gabe supplied helpfully.

William nodded and felt his face heat up, could feel the red creeping across his cheeks. He looked down to avert his demeanor from Gabe, but it was useless. The Spanish boy saw and lightly tipped William’s chin upwards in order to face him.

With a calm and steady voice, he muttered, “I want whatever ‘this’ is, William. I-I want you.”

“Gabe.” William was helpless. “This could be all wrong. I-I mean, I like you. I do. But what if we’re wrong? What if this is… nightingale syndrome?”

“William, I don’t feel obligated to be around you,” Gabe said, “I feel… I feel fucking high when I’m around you. And I don’t know what to do. You drive me crazy, William. And, sure, this could be wrong-- could even be a mistake. But we’re never gonna know if we don’t even try.”

“What are you saying?” William’s voice was caught in his throat. His heart was hammering loudly beneath his chest, and he was afraid that the erratic beat would ruin the tranquility of the moment.

“I’m saying that… this could be the biggest disaster under the sun, me and you, but I’m also saying I want this. And whether ‘this’ is gonna end in us burning out or not, I want to risk it.”

William watched Gabe scoot closer and close the distance between the two of them on the couch. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing even as he felt the older man’s fingers tickling his jaw line and making their way up his cheekbones before sliding to the back of his neck. And maybe it was instinct, but William parted his lips just a fraction and felt a sigh escape his mouth as Gabe swallowed the breath with his own mouth.

It was in that moment, lip locked with Gabe Saporta in his high-furnished and refined condo, that William realized things were going to be okay. They could burn out or fade away, but it didn’t matter; William wanted this, too. He wanted the harsh press of Gabe’s lips against his and the warmth that radiated from the body pressed so close to him. He wanted the way Gabe’s hands were reassuring and strong and so sure of themselves. He wanted the lazy tangle of their tongues together and even the nervous clack of teeth that William seemed to be notorious for during make-out sessions. William Beckett wanted Gabe Saporta; it was as simple as that, and it didn’t matter if this was just a step away from oblivion.

“Stay?” Gabe murmured against his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip.

William nodded before emitting a breathy, “Yes.”

“I don’t want to do anything,” Gabe continued on in a nurturing voice as he pulled away to dot kisses across William’s cheek, and William relished the feeling of his skin beneath Gabe’s knowing lips. “I just want to sleep.”

“A-and I want this, Gabe,” William assured him, “I don’t care how it ends.”

“You’re not going to be just a notch in my bedpost, William,” Gabe said and somehow his voice sounded like a promise.

So William just smiled and grabbed Gabe’s hand, squeezing it. “What does ‘this’ even mean?”

“It means that, for as long as time permits, I’m yours.”

William smiled and pressed his lips to Gabe’s again.

For the first time since he had watched his friend die, William felt alive.

 

 

V.

 

 

Often times, Vic met Kellin on the roof of his house. More often than not, though, they seemed to only meet when Kellin’s father was at work; but that was fine with Vic because he’d never really been any sort of material to take home to the parents. He was gangly and awkward and downright pathetic in front of strangers (especially judgmental strangers). First impressions had him at a loss, so Vic was almost thankful that Kellin normally invited him over when the house was empty.

They never went inside the house, though. Even when the humidity and heat crawled at their skin, Kellin never offered him an invitation inside for a glass of iced tea or simply to cool off with the air-conditioning. Rather, Kellin would lay, parched and sweaty, on the sweltering roof, enjoying the sun’s rays from behind his sunglasses. Perspiration would trickle from his glossy black hair and down the nape of his neck, but he wouldn’t bat an eye. Thankfully Vic, too, was used to the Californian heat and had developed something of a resistance to it in order to keep himself from passing out or dehydrating.

“Vic, are we friends?” Kellin asked in the middle of one of their roof rendezvous.

Vic blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I-I don’t know?”

“Sure, you do,” said Kellin simply.

Vic sighed in frustration because, yes, he did know the answer to this question. But he hated being vulnerable like an open book; he hated wearing his heart on his sleeve. He preferred to lock up the organ and keep it for himself because pain would always be a wretched burden for a heart to bear. Love was already a burden.

Love ate away at you and your insides. It gnawed on your bones and tore them apart until you were a hollow cave waiting to be filled by someone else. But that someone else always got greedier and greedier; and soon they would carve you out more than you could handle. They would become a part of you that you never met before. They would become this monstrous presence that wouldn’t leave until it had suffocated you. Until it collapsed your lungs and broke your heart and watched, maliciously, as you healed yourself in the only way you knew: cutting yourself back open. Watching the heartbreak bleed out.

Sometimes Vic hated loving. He hated loving his mother and loving his brother and loving people who hurt him.

“I-I suppose I do trust you, Kellin.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Kellin shrugged. “People who hurt themselves are always on guard for someone else to hurt them.”

“Maybe I’m different,” Vic defended himself.

“Maybe,” hummed Kellin, “or maybe you’re afraid to let me in.”

“I trust you,” Vic reiterated.

Kellin sighed, “Only because I know your secret, Vic. But I’ve told you before: I don’t care about the secret, anymore. I wouldn’t ever tell someone, and I want you to trust me on that.”

“I do trust you, Kellin.”

“How do I know?”

Vic slammed his eyes shut, mind racing. He tried to think of something, some little gesture, that would allow him to keep Kellin in his life. He didn’t want the other boy running off and carrying with him a piece of Vic that was his. Because, like it or not, Vic had inadvertently given a piece of himself to Kellin. It was a small part-- it was his biggest secret-- and it was something.

“B-because of you, Kellin, I-I haven’t cut in a month,” stammered Vic, slamming his eyes shut and sucking in his lip.

The silence that engulfed them was heavy and strong and weighed down on Vic like a car had hit him dead-on. His chest was tight and his breathing was labored; he felt winded and foggy and in a lopsided daze as he tried to ignore the sweat running down the nape of his neck and the suffering heat of the sun irritating his skin.

Finally, Kellin gasped, “Vic, I didn’t know.”

“I just- you help me, Kellin, and I trust you for that.” Vic hated to admit it. He hated to be so vulnerable in front of a near-stranger. He wasn’t even sure how to describe how Kellin had earned his trust and wheedled into his life until Vic was putting razorblades down for him, something he’d never done for anyone else.

“I care about you, Vic,” Kellin said, “I know we’ve haven’t known each other very long, but… I hate seeing people hurt.”

“I used to think I deserved the pain,” whispered Vic.

Kellin raised a brow. “And now?”

“And now I hate myself more because of it.”

“What?”

“Look at my arms!” Vic shouted and pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt he wore despite the heat. Ragged scars swelled up from his arm, red and white and puckered against his tanned skin. “I’m so fucking ugly, Kellin, and it’s all my fault.”

“Vic, don’t you remember?” Kellin frowned. “What I told you at the pier….”

An echo of the word ‘beautiful’ blew through Vic’s mind, but he shook his head. “Kellin, you don’t know what it’s like. I’m sorry, but you’ve never had to hide your body out of shame.”

Again, silence fell to the roof, leaving the brief whispering of the breeze and the gentle titter of birds in the trees nearby. Vic’s tongue was dry, and he was parched, but he didn’t interrupt Kellin’s train-of-thought. He could see the cogs of the other boy’s mind running and working as he fidgeted and busied himself in something vaguely interesting on the tip of his Toms.

And then, without warning, Kellin stood up on the roof and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt before tugging it up over his body and over his head, discarding the cloth beside his feet. Almost immediately, Vic let out a very audible gasp.

Covering Kellin’s body were black bruises and thick welts- some that even looked fresh. Near his collarbone were finger-shaped marks as though someone had attempted strangling him but had ultimately failed. His body looked so pale beneath the injuries, and Vic’s mouth felt even drier.

“K-kel, what happened?!”

He shrugged, averting his gaze away from Vic’s eyes and back to his shoes.

“Kellin, someone hurt you!”

Kellin’s voice was monotone. “Happens.”

“Kellin, I care about you.”

Of course Vic knew that Kellin had injuries, had known since the boy had tumbled into his window, gasping for breath and begging for a place to stay in Verdala Park. It’s just, that night, Vic never remembered the word ‘faggot’ carved into Kellin’s chest in a small, untidy scrawl.

 

 

VI.

 

 

Patrick Stump stood outside Evertree Crescent with trembling legs and a fine sheen of sweat dotted across his forehead. In his hand was a very crumpled piece of paper, also wet with sweat from his palms. It was hardly his fault, though: his anxiety, combined with the heat had really taken its toll on the small man. And now, only a few seconds from finally facing what he had run away from in Chicago, well, it would be an understatement to say Patrick was nervous.

He knocked rapidly at the door one more time with half a mind to walk away right now if Pete didn’t answer the door.

However, no sooner had he spun on his feet than the door creaked open and there stood Pete Wentz, half-asleep in the middle of the afternoon and smelling horribly like booze.

“P-pete, what the hell?!”

“Gabe wasn’t home,” Pete slurred as though that justified the liquor stains on his shirt and the half-empty bottle held loosely in his hand.

“Pete, you look horrible!” Patrick nearly shouted and quickly nudged Pete into the condo.

“I-- you never-- you haven’t answered my letter.”

The paper slipped from Patrick’s hand as he helped Pete to the couch, and he sat next to his friend, twiddling his hands.

Pete’s eyes welled with crocodile tears. “I knew you didn’t want your heart broken again,” he hiccupped, “but I really thought this was it. I really thought you were the one.”

“Pete, you’re too young to fall in love,” insisted Patrick.

“I never fell in love with you.” The tears started to flow. “We’re soul mates. We were always in love.”

“Th-then why did you ever need my answer?”

“W-what?”

Patrick smiled faintly as though a burden had lifted from his shoulders. “We were always in love, Pete, you said it yourself.”

“Y-you….” But Pete couldn’t even make out the sentence before Patrick slapped him across the face and then promptly buried his face into Pete’s neck, fresh tears flowing down his cheeks.

“You idiot!” Patrick cried, “I never fucking stopped loving you from Chicago.”

“Th-then why’d it take you so long?”

“I’m scared, Pete.”

And even though Pete was drunk and Patrick was crying, this moment had never felt more perfect.

 

 

VII.

 

 

Evening had fallen down upon Cooperstown. The crisp breeze had swollen incredibly and sent jackets fluttering about their owners as they tried to pull the warmth tight around themselves. Moonlight fell in scattered rays upon the pavement, and shadows fluttered beneath their forms lethargically. Two figures made their way to the neon lights of The Green Gentleman, chortling and playfully shoving each other.

“C’mon, there’s no way that happened,” Shane choked out laughter.

Spencer nodded vehemently, laughing along, “It did. He stood up on the table during ‘happy birthday’ and started doing a striptease!”

“Brendon just doesn’t seem the type!”

“Get a few rum and cokes in Brendon, and he’s a terrible slut,” Spencer said, “Once, he played spin the bottle and frenched himself.”

“How?!”

Spencer shook his head. “I try not to think about it.”

Shane’s laugh followed them into the bar. Music from the jukebox was playing loudly and the clack of pool sticks against the balls sounded as well.

“Hey, Spence, Miller Lite?” Jon Walker appeared behind the bar.

Spencer shook his head as he and Shane scooted atop their stools. “Nah, I’m having something a little stronger. Gimme a shot of Jack.”

Shane nodded. “Likewise.”

Jon nodded and busied himself with pouring the whiskey into two shots. “You sure you’ll be able to handle this, Spence? Last time you drank whiskey, you threw up all the way from the bar to my place.”

Shane snorted and Spencer sent a sickly sweet smile at Jon. “I know my limits. Being a bartender, shouldn’t you be encouraging me to get drunk?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I care more about your wellbeing than the tips.”

Spencer refrained from asking if he cared more about Cassie than him. Instead, he turned to Shane and clinked his glass against the other’s before they downed the whiskey, the bitter taste burning his throat.

“Another round!” Shane insisted.

Spencer nodded and watched Jon pour them another round.

They’d become quite cozy around each other, Spencer and Shane. Just little jokes and even inside jokes. Shane had continued to teach Spencer about drumming, and Spencer, in return, had modeled for a few of Shane’s photography projects (of course, he was fully clothed in all of them). Soon, they’d taken to wandering around campus together and meeting up in the coffee shop.

Of course, this had also distanced Spencer from Jon, but that seemed null because Jon was spending all his free time with Cassie. It was nice to have a good distraction from his own jealousy.

Unfortunately for Spencer, Jon was always right: he couldn’t handle his whiskey. And that’s how the younger man found himself in the corner of the bar, lip locked with Shane Valdez.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

“We’ve got to catch this bastard,” he hissed, “the victim tally is only going up. We’ve already had one murder. We don’t want another.”

“I know we don’t!” Gerard insisted, “But we’ve got to be logical with this. This Santi copycat is calculating and patient. We’ve got to get inside his mind.”

“He’s a sick fucking homophobic bastard!” Frank shouted.

“I know, but calling him names isn’t going to catch him,” Gerard retaliated.

“Setting a trap is,” Frank finished.

Gerard raised a brow and prodded Frank to elaborate.

“We find bait, and we make sure that it’s advertised that this person is homosexual. And… we wait.”

“We put someone’s life on the line?”

“It’s a risk we need to take!”

“Frank, no,” Gerard growled, fists clenched on the library table in front of them. It seemed useless to meet in the library after they had already discovered the motive behind the murders, but Gerard felt too vulnerable when they met in his Monroeville apartment. He felt as though Frank could see behind every mask and barrier he had tried so hard to put up. And after Bert left, Gerard had vowed to himself never to let someone cut him open like that again. To let someone fill him up with poison and toxins and then watch him slowly die.

“Well what else can we do, Gerard?!” Frank leapt up, gesticulating wildly. “Wait until this truly evolves into a Santi cult? Wait until they sacrifice a homosexual virgin?”

“This might already be the Santi cult,” Gerard tried calmly, “It might be an ex-member gone rogue.”

“Then we have to put a stop on this once and for all.”

Gerard shook his head and buried it in his hands, rubbing his temples and desperately wishing his coffee cup wasn’t empty. But all he could do was think of Bert and the pain of their breakup and how Gerard had to spend weeks in rehab in order to get over him. He thought of how Bert’s friends mocked him for being gay and often said that Bert was just ‘playing around’, that Bert wasn’t really ‘like that’. He remembered one of his friends throwing a punch at Gerard and threatening to ‘show him how the prison boys do it’.

He shivered, wondering if the culprit was planning to do something similar to his next victim. Fluids hadn’t be found in the first ones, but anything was possible now. Frank was right, though, they had to do something soon or Gerard’s nightmare would come to life. But Gerard didn’t want to put bait in to lure the sick maniac. He didn’t want anyone else at risk or so exposed like he had been after Bert.

“We have to do this Gerard,” Frank choked, “I-I can’t lose anyone else.”

Gerard nodded.

“Me,” Frank said, “Use me as bait.”

No sooner had these words slipped out of the younger’s lips than Gerard felt his heart pang, and he wasn’t sure why.

 

 

#### Friday

 

IX.

 

It was dawn. The sun had not yet risen over the horizon, and a cool mist had settled across the still inky sky. Dew glistened on the grass, and the brisk smell of the morning settled over the foggy expanse of land outside the hospital. Inside, however, was much more chillier than the crisp morning. Alex had fallen asleep, curled up in a chair beside Jack’s bed. His hoodie was wrapped tight around him, and the hood was hiding his untidy bed head from view.

From the threshold to the room, a figure walked in and threw a blanket over Alex’s snoozing form.

Sniffling and shifting from the newfound warmth, Alex blinked his eyes open and looked up blearily at the form of Rian Dawson, standing over him with a forlorn smile on his face.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“S’time is it?” Alex yawned.

“It’s almost five.”

Alex’s gaze shifted over to where Jack was, comatose in bed. “He’s not waking up, Ri.”

“He will, Al.” Rian clasped his friend’s shoulder tightly. “He’s not going to get better immediately. It’s going to take time.”

“I can’t wait any longer. I already lost my brother; I can’t lose Jack, too.”

“Did you tell Jack?”

Alex shrugged.

“Alex,” Rian said sternly, “did you tell Jack you love him?”

“Not like it matters.”

“It does matter,” Rian insisted, “they say people in comas can hear the things around them.”

“Jack was never a good listener,” Alex lamented.

Rian sighed and took the nearby seat. “Alex, you have to keep faith. If you run out of hope for Jack, then who else is there?”

Alex fell silent and stared at the still form of his best friend. The best friend he had sent to his death sentence. Sure he hadn’t meant it, but had he not been so scared of falling in love with his best friend then things might’ve ended better. Jack might still be here, with him, holding his hand and making terrible jokes. And Alex would be there, laughing at Jack’s terrible jokes. 

They would be alright. They would be together.

“You love him, Alex. I get that. There’s no changing what your heart wants, but love isn’t any reason to forget to live. You can live in memories and dreams and false futures for yourself as long as you like, but you can’t forget to live. Jack would want you to live enough for the both of you.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Alex felt tears rimming in his eyes. “Leave him here in the hospital all alone? Move on from him? Fuck, Jack hated hospitals.”

“He also hated seeing you upset.”

“This is justified.”

“You can be in love, Alex, just don’t lose yourself because of it.”

Alex remained silent.

“Because if you lose yourself, then the Alex that Jack is looking forward to seeing when he wakes up will be gone. He’ll be replaced by a hollow shell, and I think that would kill Jack the most.”

“So what would you have me do?” Alex looked up with pleading eyes as though begging Rian to point him in some direction he might’ve passed.

Rian adjusted the blanket on Alex’s body and tucked him in tighter to the chair. “Go back to sleep, Al.”

“I don’t want Jack to wake up and be alone.”

“He won’t be,” Rian assured him. “He’ll see you, sleeping or awake.”

Sleepily, Alex nodded and allowed himself to be lulled to sleep as Rian left the room. Unconsciously, Alex’s hand reached over to tangle his fingers together with Jack’s, squeezing it like a lifeline.

 

 

X.

 

 

Pete knew Brendon Urie because his best friend had been attached at the hip to this boy. Over the course of their strange friendship, Pete had grown fond of Brendon. The boy was funny and creative and could charm the pants off anyone. He’d amuse Pete for hours with tacky jokes and renditions of Spongebob episodes. So, as social dynamics would have it, Pete found himself nursing a hangover at Patrick’s apartment, who was at class. And as social dynamics would have it, Brendon was home and finally waking up.

He yawned and walked out of his room in a pair of boxers that hung loosely below his hips. Automatically, his feet carried him to the coffee maker as he put a pot in and slid up on the counter, banging his feet against the ends of it raucously.

Pete groaned into the pillow on the couch where he’d spent the night. “The fuck?!” he shouted into the apartment.

Silence. “Oops,” Brendon giggled, “didn’t realize Patrick had company.”

With a pounding in his head and a dry mouth, Pete managed to sit up and squint over to see Brendon sitting on the counter beside the coffee maker. “Oh,” he croaked, “hey, Brendon.”

“Long time, no see, Petey!” Brendon sounded chipper.

“I know. I haven’t seen you since….” Pete’s words were lost in his throat. He wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase it. He was aware that Brendon and Ryan had fizzled out their friendship, but everyone on campus seemed to be calling it a break-up as though Ryan and Brendon had been more than they let on.

“Yeah, well, friendships fall apart,” Brendon said with an awkward giggle. “And speaking of which, you and Patrick seem to be awfully snug around each other.”

Pete laughed, “I wish. Damn kid made me sleep on the couch.”

“He cares about you!” Brendon insisted.

“But he doesn’t care about my back.”

“Patrick’s self-conscious. He’s not ready for sex, and he’s afraid if you find that out, you’ll leave him. So he keeps you at a distance.”

“That’s stupid,” Pete said, “I love him.”

Brendon smiled and his eyes glistened in the incandescent light of the halogen bulbs. “I keep telling him that.”

“How’d you know Patrick and I started seeing each other again?”

“We’re roommates, duh!” Brendon waved his hand. “It’s like life partners, but more serious because we signed a lease.”

Pete snorted. “Trick’s normally shy about discussing his relationship.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “I tell him enough about mine.”

Pete’s mind flitted to visions of Brendon and Ryan together as he quirked a brow. “Yeah?”

Brendon nodded vehemently. “Yeah. His name’s Dallon.”

“Oh.” Pete had expected Brendon to admit to the rumors going around campus about what he had had with Ryan.

“Yeah, it’s so nice to feel wanted again,” Brendon yammered on as he poured himself coffee and heaping spoonfuls of sugar. “I used to have to get drunk or make out with random dudes to feel wanted, but Dallon’s different. Dallon cares about me.”

“You deserve to be happy, Brendon,” Pete said because it was true.

Brendon smiled and nodded to himself, lost in a train of thought. For a moment, Pete thought he saw a tear in his eyes, but it was replaced by a spark of energy from the caffeine buzz. 

“Patrick cares about you,” Brendon piped, “I’ve never seen him in love before, but this is new.”

 

 

XI.

 

 

Pattering around the dingy Monroeville apartment, Gerard sleepily rubbed at his eyes and made his way for the nearly empty cupboards which housed nothing more than a few packs of coffee, a half-empty cereal box, and stale crackers. Gerard hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a while-- at least not since he’d been released from rehab. Ray had originally taken to dropping over food for him, but they had both been preoccupied with the Santi case, so that hadn’t happened in quite some time.

His stomach growled as he prepared himself some cereal. He was too tired to even fix himself some coffee. Besides, the caffeine had started to interfere with his sleep pattern. Of course, he hadn’t been the same since rehab and since Bert and since he was happy, but he couldn’t afford to lose anymore sleep, especially with a serial killer on the loose. 

A knock at the door nearly made Gerard spill the milk, and he set it down trying to remember if Ray had mentioned visiting while they had been on the phone last night.

Blearily and sleepily, Gerard made his way to the door and wrenched it open, jolting awake immediately at the sight of tiny Frank Iero in the doorway with Starbucks in his hand and a smile spread on his face.

“F-frank?” Gerard stuttered in confusion.

“Hey.” Frank invited himself in and set the coffee on the counter.

“W-what brings you here?” Gerard asked.

Frank sipped the coffee. “I think we might have a suspect.”

Gerard’s brow quirked. “Who?” 

“His name’s Zack Merrick. He was an old friend of Alex Gaskarth’s, Tom’s younger brother, before Tom became president of the LGBTQ club. Seems they had a falling out since then….”

“How does he relate to the other victims, then?”

“His girlfriend was in a sorority with Greta Salpeter. And the only person we can’t quite find a connection with is Jamia Nestor.”

“She could still have been a mistake?” Gerard suggested.

“But she had a homosexual connection!”

“Could just be a coincidence.”

Frank hummed and took a seat on the raggedy sofa, ignoring the coffee stains and smears of ashes. Suddenly, Gerard felt very self-conscious at Frank seeing him disoriented in the morning and vulnerable and having been missing Bert. “I still want to be the bait.”

“How are we even going to set a trap?!”

“Simple,” Frank explained, “we get word around that I’m gay. We make me the poster kid for homosexuals. We give him a reason to hate me.”

“How long do you think this could take?” Gerard’s voice quivered.

Frank shrugged. “Might take as little as a week. It depends on the student body’s cooperation and acceptance of my sexuality.”

“Won’t it be a little suspicious if you suddenly come out of the closet?” Gerard asked.

Frank nodded and pursed his lips. “I thought about that. I think it would be best if I came out of the closet with my new boyfriend.”

“Who?”

Frank pierced him with a stare and said something that nearly made Gerard spill his cereal. “You.”

 

 

XII.

 

 

The room was spinning, and the lights blinked rapidly behind his closed eyelids. He groaned and tried to recollect himself, but nothing worked. He felt like he was in pain and numb, yet he was uncannily comfortable. It was as though his numb body had fallen into a sea of cotton and patchwork quilts that enveloped him in warmth and comfort. Spencer groaned again as he tried to move his limbs and open his eyes only to be met with a sore sight.

Jon sat beside the bed Spencer was in (Jon’s bed) with a glass of water and an aspirin. Upon seeing Spencer awake, Jon handed Spencer the amenities and watched him swallow the pills.

“Th-thanks,” Spencer croaked.

Jon nodded.

The look on Jon’s face suddenly made Spencer very aware what had happened last night. He remembered Shane flirting with him and coaxing him and suddenly coaxing his lips open with his own lips. He remembered making out with him unabashedly against the bar wall and in the bathroom. He remembered denim rubbing against denim and how wantonly Spencer had moaned out Shane’s name. There was hair pulling and lip biting, and Spencer couldn’t remember anything past the other man’s name escaping his lips.

“What happened?” asked Spencer hollowly even though he knew.

“You couldn’t handle your whiskey,” Jon tried to laugh, but it was as hollow as Spencer.

“Y-you took me home,” Spencer said.

Jon nodded.

“You took me home,” he repeated.

“I couldn’t leave you at the bar drunk, Spence.” He smiled softly. “I’ll always take you home.”

“W-what happened to Shane?”

Jon’s face hardened. “I took him to his place, as well.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jon said and didn’t elaborate on the matter.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered, collapsing back against the mountain of pillows and closing his eyes in content. 

Jon watched him fall back to sleep with a heavy heart and even heavier eyes, the dark rings only emphasizing the fact that he hadn’t slept the entire night while he sat beside Spencer’s sleeping form.


	12. Progression

  
I.

 

The light filtered in through the blinds at Evertree Crescent. The condo was silent, for Pete was at Patrick’s and Gabe was snoring in his bed, dead to the world. Amidst the ticking of the wall clock in the room and the hum of the refrigerator just on the other side of the door, William laid, cuddled beside Gabe, deep in thought.

He always woke up early. William was simply like that: he enjoyed the ambience and tranquility that the morning offered, those simple hours when he could gather his thoughts and escape a world of judgment and escape even his nightmares.

More often than not, William thought of Tom’s death. He thought of the responsibility that hung in the air around him when he should have kept his promise and looked after Tom during that party. He thought of Ryan hushing him and telling him that things would be alright. But they weren’t because Tom had died and William’s heart had broke with his friend’s last breath.

Then William thought of Gabe. This was the first night they had slept in a bed together. William hadn’t wanted to push their newfound relationship, given that Gabe had had himself a rough sexual encounter and still blamed himself for it. Yet, William wondered if maybe this small act of intimacy didn’t represent something greater. Maybe this was Gabe’s way of saying that he was healing and recovering. This was no longer the threat of nightingale syndrome that William walked straight into. Gabe truly and deeply was attracted to William, and not the idea that William was his savior.

And just maybe if Gabe could accept the inevitability that there are sick people in the world who get off on hurting others, then maybe William could accept the inevitability that he was not the cause of Tom’s death. William deserved friends and love and freedom not to be haunted by a ghost.

He thought, in that moment, about giving himself to Gabe and surrendering himself. Not in a sexual way, though, for William had never had sex before and could not simply imagine merely giving himself away. He wanted to be fully and completely in love with the person who would form a connection with him that no one else could. William was a hopeless romantic like that, as much as his anxiety and his roommate’s cynicism nibbled at him. He had waited for love the entirety of his high school career, but laying here with Gabe, nothing more had ever felt like the beginning of something that even William couldn’t begin to describe.

Despite the fact that he had saved Gabe, he felt as if Gabe had saved him too. He felt as if Gabe had opened his eyes to the silver lining in life. As if Gabe had helped him realize that everyone deserved love, especially in fragile times such as these. Times when people were dying and getting attacked. William felt as though Gabe’s bravery had transferred into his own body, and he was wondering if maybe he was coming to terms with Tom’s death finally.

The man shifted beside him and smacked his lips, blinking his eyes open in the blaring sunlight and yawning.

William smiled as Gabe sat up, hair disheveled and clothes hanging loosely from his body, exposing the sharp contours of his collarbone. “Morning,” he whispered.

Gabe smiled at the sight of William, buried in the blankets and plush pillows. “You stayed.”

“Of course I did,” said William, furrowing his brows, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Gabe shrugged. “Thought maybe you’d get cold feet.”

“We’re just sleeping in the same bed together, Gabe.”

“I know, but… I guess it’s a bit more than that.”

William’s brow quirked. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Gabe smiled and rubbed sleep from his eye before taking one of William’s hands in his and intertwining their long fingers. “You know how we never have a name for this thing that we’re doing, here?”

William’s breath caught in his throat, and he nodded.

“Well….” Gabe played with William’s fingers. “I want to name it.” And before William could open his mouth to ask about that, Gabe finished, “I want you to be my boyfriend, Guillermo.”

Before he could help himself, William’s mouth fell open into a perfect ‘o’, and he looked like a deer caught in headlights as his eyes widened substantially.

“I’m happy with you, William,” Gabe continued, “With you, I don’t feel the need to drown myself in drink and hate my father. With you, I want to be Prince Charming.”

Breathlessly, William laughed, “Oh, Gabe. You don’t have to be a prince for me. I like you for you.”

Gabe smiled. “So…?”

“Yes,” whispered William, “I want to be your boyfriend.”

Before another word could slip out of Gabe’s slaphappy lips, William leaned forward and pressed their lips together. It felt natural, the way their lips slid against the other’s. The way they paused for breath and swallowed at the same moments. Nibbling on Gabe’s bottom lip, William felt the dark arms slide to his waist and tighten their grip. Gabe’s kiss was intoxicating, and it made William’s head swim and heart throb the way that something new and wonderful always does.

Gabe was obviously very experienced and comfortable with kissing, which mirrored William’s anxiety and meekness. He was gentle yet firm and didn’t stray once from William’s lips.

And when the younger boy finally pulled away to smile at his new boyfriend, Gabe pulled him flush against himself until it was as if they were one entity.

William liked that, the idea of becoming one person with somebody else. Maybe Gabe wasn’t the puzzle piece that would complete him or the cure to his psychological problems, but he had never vowed to be. Instead, Gabe had sworn to be a prince.

Already it felt as though William’s pumpkin had turned into a carriage. He only hoped that midnight wouldn’t strike anytime soon.

 

 

II.

 

 

Patrick came home from his classes around noon. Pete had stayed in Brendon’s company for the entire day, and the two had bonded substantially. It all started with terrible cartoons, some bad coffee, and a pulsating hangover on Pete’s part. But eventually, the two found each other comfortable in each other’s company, and Patrick came home to find them listening to a pop punk mixed CD that Ryan had made for Brendon so long ago. But Brendon didn’t seem disturbed by that fact as he had a huge smile on his face as he looked over at Patrick and said, “Dallon’s stopping by. Double date?”

Pete smiled, too, and Patrick blushed and nodded.

He jumped into the shower quickly and changed as the October humidity of the Californian air had made Patrick a sweaty mess since he had decided to take his bike to the class instead of driving. Fuel efficiency obviously did not agree with Patrick Stump judging by the sweat stains beneath his armpits and the sweat trail running from his hair to the nape of his neck. Though, he could remember a time when he had been a chubby kid from Chicago trailing after Pete Wentz like a puppy dog. Since then he had lost quite some weight, but he still wasn’t very fond of exercise and hot days. That would never change.

When Patrick stepped out of the shower, Dallon was already there, with one arm curled around Brendon on the couch.

“You two are a cute couple,” Dallon said idly from his spot on the couch prompting Brendon to giggle and Patrick to blush again.

“We’re not--” Pete began, but Patrick suddenly interrupted him.

“Thanks,” he said weakly.

And even though it had been such a simple word, Patrick felt as though he had solidified something neither of them had wanted to jump on. Pete and Patrick were together. There were no reservations or restrictions together. They loved each other, and finally Patrick felt as though he was prepared to put his heart on the line. Because, simply put, Pete wouldn’t break it. He knew Patrick’s heart was fragile, and he would never risk ever letting it leave his hands again.

Patrick took his designated seat next to Pete and even made the first move to lay his head on the older boy’s shoulder.

“How long are you staying in Cooperstown, Dallon?” asked Patrick.

The mortician shrugged. “Longer than I planned. Might even look for a steady job here.”

“We might need another mortician with all the murders happening here,” Pete muttered darkly, and Patrick grabbed his hand in order to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“I think I’m sick of corpses,” Dallon said, “I think I might go back to school, here, at the university.”

Brendon looked genuinely surprised by that. “Really?”

He nodded. “Might go into music. I’ve always been a stickler for that sort of stuff.”

Again, Brendon’s surprise shone on his face. “You play?”

“I dabble.”

Leaping up, Brendon retrieved his acoustic from his room and handed it to Dallon, egging him to play something for the room.

With some more reassurance and a few kisses and puppy-dog eyes from Brendon, Dallon reluctantly agreed to play an original song he had written back in Salt Lake City. “This song never really had an inspiration,” he went on, “I’m still waiting for that person to fill in the song for me and make it come alive.”

Brendon glowed. “Play it.”

Dallon sighed and began plucking strings, a playful little tune that had Patrick smiling from ear to ear as he heard the lyrics:

_Could this be love at first sight or should I walk by again?_

_You’re photogenically dressed; the conversation begins._

_Oh god, now what did I say?_

_Let me start over again._

_Could this be love at first sight, oh wait I said that before…._

Even though Patrick had an inkling that Dallon was surreptitiously dedicating this to Brendon, he couldn’t help but think the lyrics had described exactly what he was feeling towards Pete at the moment with their fingers intertwined and their bodies pressed close together on the couch.

Pete looked towards Patrick and caught his eye in the midst of the chorus, and he was grinning from ear to ear. The room felt like it was spinning, and the melody was the spinster, itself. Dallon’s voice sounded far away to Patrick, nearly muted, as he stared into Pete’s glassy browns, almost seeing the Chicago nights masked behind them.

In a trance-like state, Patrick felt his free arm curling around Pete’s neck and hanging loosely. He could feel Pete’s breath on his face, and even though he smelt like coffee and a slight tinge of morning breath, Patrick was braced for the impact of what was happening.

He was ready for this.

Pete’s breath was on his lips.

His heart was nearly bursting from his chest, and he felt dizzy enough to be light-headed. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t pull back or pull away. All he could feel was Pete’s warm breath encasing him in a cocoon that not even the air-conditioning could permeate.

Finally, Brendon’s voice joined Dallon on the next chorus, and the song turned into a duo.

Finally, Pete’s lips crashed against Patrick’s, and the whole world dissipated from his mind. Reality slipped away and melted, and all he could taste, smell, see, hear, and feel was Pete. Pete’s hands gingerly cupping his face, Pete’s lips sliding against his seamlessly, Petepetepete.

Patrick nearly choked, but he was too afraid to pull away for breath. Too afraid to let this moment slip from his finger and fall into a pool of forgotten nights in a city of regrets.

It was Pete who ended it first, who pulled away just as Dallon and Brendon’s voices faded out into a humming silence that buzzed in Patrick’s ear drums. His mouth was agape, and he knew he must look like an idiot stunned into submission.

“I told you it would work,” Brendon whispered loudly to the room.

Dallon grinned back and pecked Brendon’s lips.

Patrick’s jaw dropped further as he looked to Pete and stammered, “Y-you planned this?”

“While you were at class.”

“….”

“I wanted your first kiss to be like a movie.”

Before Patrick could even think, he jumped onto his first instinct and pressed his lips to Pete’s one more time, thinking that if this were a movie, the credits might as well start rolling because this was the perfect ending.

 

 

III.

 

 

She pattered around the tiny house on Freemont Street with the blinds pulled shut to keep the living room as dark as possible. The blue light of the television seeped onto the couch where the lithe form of Ryan Ross was curled up towards the end. Keltie took her seat beside him and nudged a miniature bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries that were sitting on the coffee table with her foot.

“Have one?” she suggested, pulling one from the bowl herself and plopping the rich chocolaty taste into her mouth and savoring the sweetness beneath.

Reluctantly, Ryan grabbed himself one and plopped it into his mouth. He’d never been a fan of fancy desserts or anything fancy for that matter. He’d always been a simple man with simple wants and wishes. And now he had been reduced to brooding in a house that wasn’t his and sucking chocolate off of strawberries.

“What’s wrong?” Keltie asked, noticing his sour expression.

He shrugged, still thinking about Brendon. He was always thinking about Brendon. Even when he had gone to Keltie’s big opening night on the boy’s birthday. Part of Ryan had just wanted to show up at the small party he knew Brendon was having. He always had a small get-together of friends during his birthday to watch crappy movies with. But judging from Brendon’s Facebook statuses, he was already in a new relationship with a new beau to wish him a happy birthday. Ryan wondered what this ‘Dallon’ had given Brendon for his birthday. Maybe he had finally given Brendon the exclusive relationship the boy had always dreamed of. Something that Ryan’s pride had never allowed him to do.

“I’m thinking….” He said slowly so as not to worry her.

She hummed, “Well, I want to talk to you, Ry.”

He jerked. “What?”

She bit her lip, thinking carefully before finally saying, “About… us.”

“What about us?”

“Well, where do we stand?” She fidgeted on the couch as the awkwardness surrounded them. “I mean, I like you, Ry. But you’re always distant nowadays.”

“Keltie, I don’t think we should talk about this now.” Not when his mind was littered with thoughts of an ex-lover’s touches.

“Ry, we need to!” she insisted with a raised voice. “I’m not going to be strung around. Either you like me or you don’t like me, but whatever is going on now, I can’t keep it up. Because I really like you.”

“Keltie,” he sighed, twisting on the couch to face her as they both abandoned the bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. “Why do we have to put labels on everything?”

“Because I’m not like you,” she growled in frustration, “I don’t like enigmas and puzzles. I want definitive, Ryan. I want a future.”

He frowned. All he wanted was the movie to distract them both, and the darkness to keep him in his comfortably brooding thoughts. He wanted to sit and remember Brendon and remember how he liked to cuddle during terribly movies and kiss his neck when it got too boring or scary. Keltie wasn’t like that; Keltie could never be like that.

“Ryan?” Keltie pulled him back to the distasteful flavor or reality.

“Keltie,” sighed Ryan, chewing on his tongue, unable to stop the words coming from his mouth, “I really like you, too.”

 

 

IV.

 

 

Curled into the corner of the couch of First Street, Spencer idly stirs his spoon around his tea, watching the sugar dissipate into the amber liquid. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jon whistles some jaunty tune from the 60s as he made his late breakfast of toast. Jon was a stickler for breakfast; in fact, if he had it his way every meal would be breakfast. It was easy to prepare, and it always made the house smell warm and inviting: the crispy bacon, buttery toast, scrambled eggs, even the coffee and orange juice.

Spencer didn’t mind. Jon was a decent cook, and Spencer was never one to turn down a warm meal. But now, with a horrible hangover and scattered memories of regrets from last night, Spencer wished that Jon would turn down the sizzling of the frying pans just a little.

He wanted time to think. But every time he did, his mind went back to Shane Valdez. He couldn’t remember what had incited them to kiss, in the first place. For some reason, Secondhand Serenade echoed inside his head, but that was all wrong because that was his and Jon’s song. For another reason, Spencer also couldn’t remember why they had stopped kissing and why Spencer had not gone home with Shane. If they had really been into each other at the bar, wouldn’t it had made more sense to wake up in the same bed together?

He thought of calling Brendon, but the shame of last night and the burn of his whiskey-fried throat kept him from doing so.

Perhaps, this game had gone too far for himself. Maybe he should’ve heeded his own advice when he and Ryan had discussed why love was not a game. Yes, it was a war, and yes, all is fair in love and war. But what Spencer was doing with Shane and Jon wasn’t love nor was it war. It was pure selfishness. It was Spencer wanting something he couldn’t have. It was Spencer wanting and needing with such foolishness that he would stoop to any level to satisfy himself. It was nothing but a childish game of war with toy soldiers. And with a pit of anxiety in his stomach, Spencer wondered if maybe he had gone too far. Perhaps, he had even started fooling himself into thinking that Jon would actually be jealous of Shane, that Jon would actually have feelings for his platonic roommate.

“Jon?” called Spencer hoarsely to the kitchen, prepared to ask all the embarrassing details of last night.

Jon had taken him home; had he not wanted to face this conversation, he would have left him drunk off his feet at the bar.

“Yeah, Spence?” Jon stopped whistling and turned down the burners on the stove.

Spencer’s stomach flipped, whether it was from the nausea that came free with every bottle of whiskey or whether it was the sound of Jon’s voice so early in the morning and so awake and gritty with coffee.

Shaking his head, Spencer opened his mouth to ask what the fuck happened last night when a knock on the door interrupted them. Then, without warning, the figure of Cassie strutted in with an arm full of shopping bags and a pair of designer shades on top of her head.

“Jon?” she called. To Spencer, Cassie always sounded whiny and needy. Then again, to Jon, Spencer probably sounds like that.

“Yeah, honey?” Jon poked his head out and his smile nearly split his face in half at the sight of blonde-haired beauty in the threshold of his house.

“Just came back from shopping with the girls,” she explained and walked over to peck his lips, giggling, “You taste like bacon.”

“Spence has a headache,” Jon explained, “Hearty breakfasts usually clear that up.”

She frowned, “That’s a shame. I wanted to invite the two of you out for breakfast.”

Spencer perked up, face screwed up in confusion. “The two of us?”

Cassie nodded eagerly, “I have someone I’ve been dying to introduce you to, Spencer.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Haley. She’s gorgeous and single.” Cassie winked.

Spence shifted uncomfortably and tried not to catch Jon’s eye. His face was boiling to a near red color that Spencer felt like a lobster. A lobster about to be stewed alive for the sake of human amusement.

“I guess I can call for a rain check,” she amended with an apologetic pout to Jon who proudly planted his lips against hers.

Spencer ignored the happy couple and muttered something about going to find more aspirin.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” Jon mumbled between his kisses with his girlfriend.

Spencer rolled his eyes, vaguely thinking that Shane Valdez would pay Spencer all his attention. In fact, Shane had wanted to do more; and Spencer couldn’t help but think of an offer the photography major had made to him some time ago-- a proposition that had something to do with nude pictures.

Maybe this wasn’t a game, but Spencer was okay with that. And maybe this wasn’t even love or war, but it hardly mattered. People were dying, and attraction had always been lethal.

 

 

V.

 

 

“Damn, Frank, did you take a vacation or something?” Bob asked the minute Frank stepped into the house after having spent the yet another night out of the apartment. It felt like he’d been gone a real long time, and he could tell from the look of Bob’s face that he had been gone a bit too long. Bob’s face was now a fully-grown beard and there were rings around his eyes that could rival Detective Way’s.

“Have you been sleeping, Bob?”

Bob mumbled something and slumped back into the couch, training his eyes on the television.

Frank fell down beside him and asked again, “Have you been sleeping?”

Bob scowled, “Of course not. I’ve been worried about you, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t been picking up my shifts at the store, have you?”

“No. I’ve just been… worried.”

Frank giggled, “So you do have a heart.”

“Shut it, Frank.” Bob elbowed his roommate. “There’s a murderer out there, and you’re galumphing around with rookie detectives.”

“He’s not a rookie. He’s a recovering addict.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Because that’s so much better.”

Frank sighed and let the conversation simmer down. Bob was tired and grumpy, and from the looks of the counters in the kitchen, Bob had been drinking. Immediately a pang of guilt hit Frank as he thought of how selfish he was to put himself in harm’s risk. Maybe Jamia didn’t care about him as much, but Bob sure did. Bob had been with him through hell and back, and Frank was repaying him by giving him panic attacks and anxiety before he even hit twenty-five.

“Bob,” Frank sighed, “I’m going undercover.”

“WHAT?!”

“Bob!” Frank tried to calm the raging bearded man down. “It’s just temporary. I’m moving in with Gerard next door to our suspect, and we’re… going to be… lovers.”

This time, the silence was deafening as Frank saw the cogs of Bob’s brain working. As he watched his face turn back to its pasty white color and drain from the red anger that had bubbled up.

“Y-you’re going to be bait.”

“Yes and no.” Frank hesitated. “Bob, I’m going to be safe. Gerard will keep me safe.”

“You hardly know this man, yet you’re going to trust him with your life?”

“I’ve got to,” whispered Frank.

“Why, Frank? Why can’t you just let the authorities handle this by themselves? Why can’t you be safe?” This time Frank heard the choking in Bob’s voice, and the pangs of guilt hit him harder than ever. Bob never cried.

“Bob, I have to do this. I have to protect the people I love.”

“What about the people who love you, Frankie?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going to think about them when you frolic off into danger?”

Frank scooted closer to Bob, but he looked away. Frank knew it was just Bob’s way to disguise the fact that he was crying, but Frank had lived with Bob long enough to know how to deal with this. He wrapped his arms around Bob’s middle and laid his head on his best friend’s chest, listening to the pitter-patter of his sad heart.

“Don’t cry, Bobby.”

“I’m not crying, Frank.” Bob sniffled, “I have allergies.”

Frank giggled into Bob’s shirt but didn’t move. He didn’t dare break this fragile moment of friendship between them. They hadn’t had a moment like this since Bob’s father had died and Frank had let the older man lock himself in his room for three weeks before he decided it was time for an intervention. Bob had cried into Frank’s shirt for hours before he had passed out from the booze. But this time it felt different; it was a different kind of a sadness. It was the kind of sadness that a person felt when there was simply no more room for heartbreak in their chest anymore. It was a kind of sadness that could kill.

“Bob, I will keep in touch with you, okay?” Frank lifted his head up to stare at the grizzly face of his sad roommate.

Bob nodded and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. “I-I can’t lose you, Frank.”

“You won’t.”

“Y-you’re my best friend.”

Frank smiled, “And you’re mine, too, Bobby-bear.”

 

  
VI.

 

 

He didn’t know where he was. All he could see was darkness, a never-ending abyss that he was running and running through, never ceasing. At the end of the long tunnel, he could see a door, a shiny knob glistening through the thick black miasma. But every time he ran, faster and faster, the door would only drift further and further away. He didn’t know what was behind that door, but he hoped it was better than whatever was in this hallway. For some reason, he found it hard to breath, as though he was surrounded by sloshing water, as though he were drowning on land.

Jack tried to move or to talk in his coma, but he was lost in his own mind, running down the corridor and struggling to breathe.

His hands laid rigidly by his side, and the machines by his bed continued their steady beeping. But Jack was only aware of the noises, the undistinguishable noises, that never ceased.

Then, clearer than rain, Jack heard a familiar voice drifting through the endless static and sloshing that his head constantly heard.

“Rian, I don’t know what to do,” the voice said.

Jack stopped running in the long, dark hallway to listen to the voice. He didn’t care that running was the only way to keep breathing; he had to stop and listen to that beautiful voice. For some reason, it made his arms break out in goose bumps and his heart to beat rapidly inside his chest, and his stomach was doing flips.

“It’ll be okay, Alex.”

Alex. Jack remembered Alex. It was as though a wave of memories had hit him, and Alex was in the core of every one: good or bad. Jack felt high, like he was floating through a sunny sky full of clouds and light. Alex’s voice made the darkness dissipate.

“Rian, it won’t be. H-he doesn’t know I love him.”

Jack could hear the sobs in Alex’s voice. He didn’t need to see him to know that tears were running down his cheeks. And that made Jack insanely sad because he had made Alex sad. Desperately, Jack wanted to jump out of the bed and scream and shout that he knew Alex loved him, that Jack loved him, too. He wanted to kiss Alex and feel Alex and hold Alex until everything was better.

But all Jack could do was drown in his mind as he tried to listen to Alex.

“I’m sure he knows, Alex. You and Jack always had this weird connection.”

Alex choked, “I-I love him so much, Ri.”

Jack tried to say it back, but no sound emitted from his voice.

“His mother was in earlier,” Alex said with a quivering voice as Jack tried to stay atop the tide that was pushing him further and further away from his guardian angel. “She said-- she said they can’t afford his care anymore.”

“What?!”

“Rian, they want to pull the plug.”

Jack tried to shout or move. Just something to let Alex know that he was okay, that no one needed to pull the plug, that Jack still loved Alex and would no matter what. But it was useless as the waves came and carried him away.

 

 

VII.

 

Vic entered the house on Verdala Park for the first time that afternoon, having spent most of the day out with Jaime as he talked to him about his quells with Kellin and seeing the word ‘faggot’ carved across his chest. Somebody was hurting Kellin, and Vic wasn’t sure who. It made him sick to his stomach at the thought of someone carving out Kellin’s flesh.

Mike was at work, as usual, that afternoon, and Vic dropped his keys onto the counter, leaning against the chipped woodwork to think about Kellin Quinn. In his entire life, he’d never met anyone quite like the other boy. Someone who thought Vic was beautiful, despite the ugly scars across his wrist. Someone who restrained Vic from pressing razors to his skin. Someone who genuinely cared about him.

Of course, Mike and Jaime cared about Vic. But they cared about him in the way brothers care for each other. With Kellin, it was different. With Kellin, it was almost intimate.

Closing his eyes, a vision came to Vic, and he saw himself with Kellin on the roof of Carnot Avenue. He saw the autumn leaves wisping around with the wind, and he saw his bony self shivering through the frigid air. Kellin placed his ratty hoodie over Vic’s tiny frame and scooted closer to him. Closer. And closer. Close enough until their faces were nearly pressed together; Vic could hear both their hearts hammering to the same melody, could feel Kellin’s breath ghosting across his cheek, could feel Kellin’s lips softly pressed against his….

And just like that, the daydream was gone. Vic was brought back to the disheartening reality of his life: standing in his cheap kitchen in Verdala Park, dreaming about a boy who sat on rooftops.

Remembering that Mike was working double that day, Vic began scourging the house for some sort of freezer meal he could make for his mother. She wouldn’t eat it, he knew that. But he wanted to let her know that he still loved her, despite the addiction that ate at his real mother.

“Mom?” he called into the silent house, “What do you want to eat?”

No reply.

“Mom?” Vic called louder, recalling how the withdrawal made her sleep like a rock.

Again, no one answered.

Vic abandoned his task of rooting for food to go and shake his mother awake. He hated going into the living room anymore and seeing her waxen corpse wasting away on the couch.: the lifelessness in her cheeks where there was once blushing pinks, the dead color in her eyes where the sun once shined, and the sluggishness of her movements that used to be agile.

Walking in slowly, Vic took a seat at his mothers feet, staring at the bundle of blankets that held nothing but a skeleton.

“Mom?” Vic whispered, “I’m home. Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. Usually, in her dazes, she would mumble about how proud she was of her son for going to school and how much she loved her son.

“Mom, I’m going to make us lunch, okay?”

She didn’t even stir.

Vic frowned, wondering if maybe Obbo had been by again and upset his mother. Maybe he had given her more drugs. Maybe he had….

“Mom?” Vic’s voice sounded panicked.

She didn’t move or speak, and Vic jumped up from the couch and edged closer to his mother, pulling back her blankets. She looked asleep, when he did. Her eyes were closed, and her face was relaxed- almost serene. Vic frowned, though: she wasn’t breathing.

“Mom?!” Vic nearly shouted as he pressed his face close to hers (the closest it had been in a while) only to hear silence in return.

He stood there for a moment, petrified, not knowing what to do. All his limbs had frozen, his heart was beating sporadically, and for a moment, it felt as though Vic’s breath had stopped, too.

His first instinct was to call Kellin and cry to Kellin. Maybe he could come over and comfort Vic, but that thought seemed so vulnerable and selfish that Vic let it sift immediately from his mind. It was only when his phone rang that he actually thought of calling an ambulance.

“Hello?” Vic answered his phone, trying to choke back tears that so desperately wanted to flow.

There was heavy breathing on the other side of the crackling line. Vic almost thought it was a wrong number and was about to hang up when the other voice on the line whispered huskily, “Faggot.”

The unknown number hung up, and Vic’s heart stopped.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

The first thing Frank Iero noticed about the apartment building Zack Merrick lived in was that it was disheveled and falling apart. Graffiti was painted to one side of the entire brick complex, the streetlamp outside was broken, and the smell of garbage filtered in through the dingy alley. Frank wrinkled his nose as he and Gerard stepped on the curb with their bags in hand.

“And we’re sure Zack is a reasonable suspect?” Frank whispered.

Gerard nodded, “He’s not unknown for being homophobic, Frank. He knew Tom and Jack in high school, and he was notorious for bullying Greta when she came out of the closet. It has to be him.”

“Does he have a history of violence?”

“Rumors have it that he was kicked off the football team for steroid usage.”

“But no violence?”

“He had football to take all his anger out on. Now that he doesn’t, his outrages could have been projected onto others.”

Frank nodded and swallowed a lump in his throat. Up until now, he had been going through this entire investigation purely on whim and the thought of avenging Jamia. But now, staring potential danger in the face, Frank finally thought he understood what Bob meant when he said that he never wanted to lose his best friend. Because what Frank was doing was reckless and… plain stupid. He was putting himself in harm’s way. And why? Because he was heartbroken.

The entire plan was idiotic, Frank realized, as they walked into the apartment building and took the shaking elevator to their floor. He was only doing this to make a point that he was hurt and angry at the world. But he wasn’t the only one. So many people have had their hearts broken in this world, thought Frank, and so many more people will. What made his heartbreak so special? What made this risk worth his life?

“You okay?” Gerard asked in the elevator.

Frank nodded.

“We really need to sell this to Merrick, though,” Gerard muttered, “This… gay thing.”

“You think you’re ready for this?” Frank asked.

Gerard shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not real.”

Frank nodded and tried to think of this case. Not his broken heart. Not Jamia. Not Bob. And definitely not Gerard. He tried to think of all the backgrounds he read about Zack Merrick. About Zack protesting the LGBTQ club’s creation. About Zack and Alex fighting about Tom creating the club. About Zack’s known anger problems.

“Should we introduce ourselves to him immediately?” Gerard asked as they stepped off the elevator.

Frank nodded and followed mindlessly as they weaved around the hallways until they found 5F. Knocking on the door loudly, Frank heard the incessant noise of dubstep from inside and what sounded like weights being lifted. It only took about five minutes before the door opened to a topless and sweaty Zack Merrick.

“Yes?” he asked, clearly annoyed as this intrusion.

Gerard stuttered himself to a silence, so Frank took over the conversation, “Hey, me and my boyfriend just wanted to apologize if there’s any loud noises over the next few hours. We’re moving in.”

Zack eyed them warily. “O-okay.”

“I’m Frank.” He held out his hand.

Hesitating, Zack shook it firmly before muttering, ‘Good day,’ and locking himself back into his apartment.

“That didn’t accomplish anything!” Gerard hissed as they walked away.

“Sure it did,” Frank muttered as the dubstep blasted louder, “Now he knows we’re gay.”

 

 

IX.

 

 

Ryan missed Brendon. That much was clear. No matter how many times he ‘made love’ to Keltie or kissed her perky pink lips or stared into her almond-shaped eyes, he could not get the image of his ex-lover out of his head. Most of the time it was moments of jealousy at the thought of Brendon’s new lover giving him all the things Ryan never could: publicity, affection, and honesty.

More and more, he merely hated himself for ever letting Brendon get away from him. He knew he could apologize or beg or try to get Brendon to take him back, but none of those would be any reason for Brendon to leave his newfound happiness for the cloud of angst that was himself, Ryan Ross.

Other times, Ryan tried to blame Dallon for stealing Brendon. He tried to blame the dreamy blue eyes, or the witty Facebook statuses, or even the gay things he posted on Brendon’s wall. But that was simply Ryan refusing to believe the fact that his own misery was completely all his fault.

He fucking missed Brendon.

And he wasn’t even sure if it was because it was Brendon, and no one could ever replace Brendon: the lyrical laugh, the dorky way he loved cartoons, or the hilarious way he’d get too hyper on caffeine. Ryan thought of his eyes, so brown and clear and honest. So hurt the last time he looked at Ryan. It made him hate himself even more.

He tried to shake his thoughts of Brendon as he strolled down the street late at night, but that was impossible. The twinkling of the stars made Ryan think of how Brendon had always liked to lay on the veranda and stare up at the stars, holding Ryan’s hand, and saying how much he’d like to buy him the heavens. Even the October smell of late bonfire hung in the air, and Ryan could only think of Brendon playing ‘chubby bunny’.

Closer and closer, Ryan edged to the strip district where the pinnacle of nightlife pursued in ways it never could at The Green Gentleman. It was the epicenter of ‘cool’ in Cooperstown, but Ryan secretly hoped that no one from the campus was out tonight, or at least out noticing him. He wasn’t exactly proud of this decision.

It wasn’t his fault really, either. It was Brendon’s. It was Brendon’s large and unforgettable personality that would never leave Ryan. It was that hole in his heart the younger had stolen with him when he went and made a new life and forgot all about Ryan.

Sometimes, nights like this, Ryan thought about how he probably did love Brendon. How he probably did and had been too scared to admit it. You never miss someone this much unless you love them. You never cry over them or hurt over them if you didn’t care about them. Because when someone takes a piece of your heart with them, it hurts more than anyone could imagine. It’s irreplaceable.

Ryan shook his head and tried to push those negative thoughts from his mind. Tonight wasn’t about moping or missing Brendon. Tonight was about forgetting Brendon and satisfying himself with something that Keltie could never give him. Something that would only be his and Brendon’s.

Ryan looked around the empty street stealthy before he pushed open the doors at the local gay bar.

 

  
X.

 

 

The wind breezed in through the open window, and the tinkling of the wind chimes one floor down rang through Kellin’s room. He could hear the rustle of leaves from the nearby tree and sound of tires rolling down asphalt, two streets over. He tried to be careful and quiet as he slipped his shoes on and threw some clothes in his bag. He hadn’t heard from Vic all day, and he was worried about the other because Vic and Kellin always texted each. They said ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ and anything they could in between. Vic hadn’t said a thing to him all day, and now Kellin was worried.

Ever since he had connected two and two at the railroad tracks, Kellin was now extremely worried about Vic being at his home alone. He knew that Vic’s brother often worked double shifts, and Kellin shuddered to think what might happen if their mother’s friend came over to find Vic all alone in that house.

He didn’t want to think of the harsh words or lewd touches or even how much it would hurt Vic.

All Kellin wanted to think about was saving Vic.

Because, before Vic, Kellin had walked around thinking he didn’t have a purpose in life. He thought that he deserved the abuse his father doled out to him, and he believed that all his pain and suffering was well-deserved. Kellin had been cynical and miserable, but when he had seen Vic hurting himself in the campus bathroom, Kellin had finally understood what pain really was. Pain was suffering. Pain was hating yourself so much that you believed you deserved it. Pain was looking in the mirror and having a stranger stare back.

And for Kellin, in that bathroom, it had been like looking in a mirror.

Even as Kellin grew to know Vic, he realized that the two were so alike. They were broken and hurt and suffering, and they needed each other. At its core, that was what this relationship was about. Need and recovery.

But today, without a single word from Vic, Kellin finally realized that he did indeed have a purpose. His purpose in life was to give Vic’s life purpose. At first, it sounded stupid, but the more and more Kellin thought about it, the more it made sense. Why was anyone dealt pain in this world? It wasn’t necessarily because they deserved it. No, it was because they could transfer their pain into beauty and recovery. There was no one more beautiful than Vic Fuentes who deserved recovery.

Kellin had to go save Vic because Vic had saved Kellin.

He grabbed his bag and hoisted it over his shoulders, tip-toeing to the window. No sooner had he slipped out onto the roof when he heard a shout that echoed across 117 Carnot Avenue.

“You little piece of shit!” Kellin’s dad was up.

He froze on the roof, with the wind blowing about him and the nighttime sounds taunting him. All he could think of in his head was how cold or lonely Vic might be at Verdala Park.

“Get over here, you no good son of a bitch. I won’t have this!” he shouted, “I won’t have you sneaking out at all hours of the night.”

His dad was hanging out the window now, making grabs for Kellin. The boy didn’t know which would be easier: to stay and get his ass kicked or to leave right now and face consequences when he arrived home.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” his dad snarled, “Don’t think I don’t see you two up here, getting cozy on my damned roof. You fucking faggot!”

The word rang through Kellin’s ears, and his hand instinctively flew to his still sore chest where he knew the dirty slur was forever engraved upon his skin. And that was that. That was all the incentive Kellin needed to climb down from the roof and run down Carnot Avenue with the adrenaline pumping in his ears and the thoughts of Vic propelling him forward.

 

 

#### Saturday

 

 

XI.

 

 

The lazy clouds rolled up overhead across the blue clouds, while the sun peeked up from the horizon and sent rays of pinks and ambers across the entirety of Cooperstown. Brendon awoke in his apartment with a warm arm curled around his waist and a still form against his back, breaths splayed against the nape of his neck. He smiled in his morning sleepiness and twisted in the body’s grip to face Dallon.

He looked so cute when he slept. His mouth was agape slightly, and his hair was tousled. One hand was curled protectively around Brendon, while the other was curled underneath the pillow. Dallon liked being the bigger spoon only because his height made him self-conscious if he was anything but. Brendon thought it was cute.

He didn’t dare wake Dallon, though. He liked watching the other man sleep, but not in a creepy way. He liked feeling as though he were protecting someone else from the pains of this world. He liked feeling strong and useful in times of trouble.

Brendon reached out to stroke Dallon’s cheek with his fingers and to trace along his cheekbones.

No sooner had he done that, then his bedside table began to vibrate. It was his phone.

Puzzled at who would be calling this early, Brendon answered the call in a whisper so as not to wake Dallon up. “Hello?”

“Brendon? He’s gone.”

 

 

XII.

 

 

Streets away from Brendon Urie’s, Gabe Saporta, too, was waking up from a serene sleep. It had been the second night that William had spent in his bed, not having sex but simply sleeping. It kept the nightmares at bay for Gabe, the ones about his attacker and being forced against his will to do revolting tasks that made Gabe scream out in his sleep. Once or twice, Pete came in to distract him with lame 80s movies and even lamer jokes. But Gabe always felt bad for waking Pete up. His roommate already had insomnia, and the times he managed to sleep, well Gabe didn’t like taking away from that.

Instead, he gripped his arm tighter around the one cure he did have only to… grip air.

Gabe blinked and squinted through the dawn only to find the bed empty. The spot beside the bed was still warm, and the sheets were still rumpled on William’s side of the blanket. But William was gone.

He waited a few more minutes before deciding that William had not gone to the bathroom. First he thought maybe the younger had panicked at the intimacy and left, but Gabe remembered that he had driven William to Evertree Crescent, and it seemed like Abbotts Close would be a long walk.

He sat up in bed, blearily, before a loud crash from the kitchen alerted him that someone was in the condo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: there is non-con in this. so... just wanted to let you guys know. it's in the end of part VII if you want to skip over it.

I.

Gabe jolted out of bed in the middle of the night and grabbed the nearest blunt object to him (which just so happened to be the broken lamp on the table) and staggered out of the room with his heart hammering inside his chest and fear gnawing at his insides. Worst-case scenarios flew through his mind. What if it was the man who had assaulted him? What if he was back for revenge? What if he had grabbed William and was making the boy do the things he had wanted Gabe to do?

His stomach flipped and turned at the thought of lewd touches and an immoral smirk directed towards William. Nausea flooded through him as he thought of that man hurt William. All he could see in his mind was William on his knees in front of that bastard, crying and begging for him to ‘let me go’. He could hear the stutter in William’s pleas and see the fear in his eyes as he glimpsed around hoping that Gabe would save him the way William had saved Gabe.

Slamming his eyes shut tight, Gabe tiptoed into the kitchen, head bowed to the ground as though the nightmares running in his head were real. As though William was going to be in pain right in front of him.

Finally, though, Gabe opened his eyes only to see broken glass and blood all over the tiled floor. Upon closer inspection, the glass looked similar to a mug, and all the liquid on the floor was not just blood- large quantities of it looked like tea.

Looking up in confusion, Gabe saw William on his knees in the kitchen with blood covering his hands as he tried to pick up the pieces of the broken mug. He was sniffling and shivering. To their right, the window had been thrown open, and the midnight breeze was chilling.

“W-what’s wrong, Guillermo?” whispered Gabe, not sure that all these pieces added up in his mind.

“S-sorry if I woke you,” William stammered with misery clearly swimming in the back of his throat. He choked a little on it. “I-I was trying to make tea.”

“William, it’s the middle of the night.”

“S-s-sorry.” William was shaking so much that every time he picked up a piece of the broken cup, it would cut his hand and another streak of red would drip to the floor, the crimson of the blood and amber of the tea mixing together until they were practically staining the tiles.

Gabe knelt down besides William and grabbed his wrists to stop them from shaking. With his free hand, he plucked the fragments of glass from William’s hand and dropped them back into the mess on the floor. Without the glass in his hands, Gabe could clearly see all the cuts on William’s hand. It was horrendous looking. Some of them were deep gashes as though William had accidentally clutched one of the fragments too tight. Most of them were tiny, but they were all still bleeding.

William flinched when Gabe ran his hands over some of the cuts, especially the nasty gash where Gabe was positive that if he had not stopped William from picking up the pieces, the younger would have to get stitches on it. Finally, breaking the silence, Gabe whispered to William, “You’re so stupid sometimes, you know that, Bill?”

William’s bottom lip trembled, and he nodded.

Sighing, Gabe brought his injured hand towards his face and kissed the cuts. He didn’t care that William’s blood was on his lips or all over his hands or even all over his expensive condo. “Why are you crying over a broken cup?”

“It’s not that,” William sniffled, “I-- I got a phone call.”

Gabe’s face instinctively hardened. “What kind of phone call?”

“I-it was about my roommate, R-ryan. He’s gone missing.”

“What?”

“S-someone reported him missing, a-and I guess there was a description of him matched at some club downtown. One of the bouncers said they saw a boy like that being carried out by another man. Th-they just assumed he’d been drunk, but police think he was drugged.”

Gabe squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to look at the blood all over them or the tears running down William’s cheeks or the tea that was staining his floor. He tried to slam his eyes shut and convince himself that this was a dream- a nightmare. William wasn’t crying and bleeding and hurting. It should be Gabe; Gabe deserved all that more than his innocent William did. Gabe deserved to bleed and hurt.

“They’ll find Ryan, William. Please, don’t cry.”

“There’s a murderer on the loose, Gabe. What if Ryan’s the next victim?!” William was properly crying now. The tears flowed freely, his hands continued to shake despite Gabe’s grip on them, and he choked and choked until he was throwing up on the floor. All over the tea and the blood, and all over Gabe. “I can’t l-lose Ryan, Gabe. I c-can’t be the c-cause of another person’s death. I can’t!”

Gabe tried to ignore the hot phlegm on his hands. “What are you talking about, Bill?”

William choked out more of his stomach all over the floor. He tried to pull his hands out of Gabe’s grip, to recede and put his shields up, but Gabe wouldn’t release them from his grip. He held on tighter, ignoring the warm blood staining both their palms.

“M-my friend Tom f-from high school,” William cried harder, “We were at a p-party. I was supposed to watch him. He drank himself to death! I k-killed him!”

Gabe tried not to cry over William’s pain, but it was hard not to feel grief at the sight of poor William in the middle of the kitchen, crying and bleeding and throwing up.

“L-let me go, Gabe!” William shook.

Gabe held on tighter.

“Let me go!” William screamed, “I c-can’t be around you. Y-you’ll die too!”

Suddenly, Gabe pulled William close to him, ignoring the rank stench of William’s puke and ignoring all the liquids splattered across the two of them. He pulled him close and kissed the tears rolling his cheeks and lifted one hand towards his face to trace the soft curve of his jaw and cheekbone. “Hey, William, calm down. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. You’re not a murderer, Bill, you’re perfect, okay? And I’m going to take care of you. Everything is going to work out, okay?”

Emotionally spent, William nodded against Gabe’s bloody palm. With his thumb, Gabe wiped the rest of William’s tears up and helped the boy to his quivering feet. He clung to Gabe for life as he shook.

“I’m going to help you clean up, Bill, is that alright?” Gabe muttered softly as he practically carried the tiny boy to the bathroom. “I have some extra clothes for you,” he added, noticing the rank patch of phlegm on William’s shirt.

William nodded and trembled in the middle of the bathroom as Gabe helped pull the clothing from his body. It didn’t matter that his own clothes were wet and gross and smelled. All that mattered was that William was okay. 

Gabe was going to help him wash and clean his cuts and bandage him up. He was going to make him a new cup of tea and clean the kitchen up and tuck William to bed. He was going to kiss William’s lips and whisper about how he’ll never let someone hurt William. 

And maybe, when he told William that things would work out and everything would get better, well maybe William would believe it.

II.

 

 

It was early morning when the phone rang at Frank and Gerard’s new apartment. Gerard woke up to the ringing of his cell phone on the couch; it was a good thing, too, for he had begun to have a haunting nightmare about Bert. About drugs and addiction and drinking. He woke up yearning for just one sip of alcohol, but he pushed his urges down as he answered the call. It was another victim, it looked like. It was a boy named Ryan Ross who had been kidnapped from a men’s club. Drugged and kidnapped, Gerard reminded himself.

He made coffee before he could do anything else. The body count was adding up, and Frank and Gerard could work no faster. They were already staking out the culprit. Hastily peering out the window, Gerard noticed that Zack Merrick’s car was missing from the parking lot. From the looks of the empty plot, it had been gone all night long. Sighing, he padded towards the bedroom and cracked the door, peering in on his sleeping partner. 

Frank was curled up in bed, light snores issuing from his body, and Gerard smiled at that. He’d always found snoring like that to be completely underrated, something about the incessant sound of another person. Gerard liked that; he liked knowing that somebody was near him. With a job like his, he liked having the instinctive knowledge that the body next to him was alive and well, albeit not conscious to the world.

He tiptoed closer to the bed. It was already seven, but Gerard could tell Frank was not a morning person. Shaking the younger man, his suspicion was confirmed by a heavy groan and a wrinkling of the nose. “W-wha?”

“We’ve got another victim.”

“Who?”

“A student named Ryan Ross. Merrick hasn’t been home all night.” Gerard bit his lip. “Maybe the bait isn’t working, Frank. He pulled this kid from a club. He must be getting pretty desperate; this is the first one he hasn’t isolated.”

“We just need more time,” Frank whined, “We need to get chummy with him enough that he can isolate us.”

“We don’t have time, Frank. People are dying!”

Frank was about to retort when a knock at the door both alarmed them. No one, besides Detective Toro, knew that they were staking out in this apartment. And Ray wasn’t stupid enough to compromise the investigation by showing up at their door. Frank sat up in bed and watched Gerard make his way to the door, opening it slowly to reveal a peppy blonde girl in a sports bra and a pair of yoga pants. Her ipod was attached to her arm, and her face was fresh and beaming as though the impending thought of running was the best thing for the morning. Frank groaned; he hated people like that.

“C-can I help you?” stuttered Gerard.

“Yeah.” She beamed brighter. “I’m Lisa Ruocco- Zack’s roommate. He’s having an early Halloween party. He asked me to invite you two, since you’re new to the building. Here!”

She handed Gerard a shoddily made invitation that looked like nothing more than a date and time scribbled onto a piece of paper.

“Th-thanks. Is this for the both of us?” Gerard asked.

Lisa paused and then giggled, “Yes, your boyfriend can come, too.”

With that, she bobbed away, leaving Gerard staring at the invitation like an idiot. When it was clear that Gerard wasn’t going to say anything, Frank trotted over and peered over his shoulder at the invite. “It’s tonight.”

“This might be our only chance to get to Zack on a personal level,” Gerard murmured, “We can’t screw this up.”

“Then we have to make him believe we are gay,” said Frank.

“What do you mean?”

“We have to give him a reason to abhor us for being gay. I mean, obviously he hates homosexuals as it is. We need to give him a reason to peg one of us as his next victim.”

“But how?!”

Frank shrugged. “He teased Greta Salpeter for merely coming out of the closet. What do you think he’d do if a gay couple partook in some ‘public displays of affection’ in front of him?”

“What are you getting at?”

Frank sighed and took the invitation from Gerard, letting it fall to the floor. He stepped directly in front of him and looked him in the eye, honestly. “We’re going to have to get comfortable doing ‘coupley’ stuff. We have to make our interactions believable.”

“We don’t have to practice that!” Gerard sounded strangled, “Nobody will question two dudes kissing.”

“If we look like we’ve never done it before, they will!” 

“W-what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we have to practice kissing.”

Images of Bert flooded Gerard’s mind. He thought of them kissing and laughing and loving. He thought of them fighting and screaming and hurting each other. He thought of pills and alcohol and hurting himself because Bert had hurt him. He shook his head; he wasn’t sure he was ready for this.

“It’s nothing more than acting,” Frank went on, and Gerard could hear the quiver of his voice, “It’s nothing more than getting the scene right.”

“Setting the stage,” Gerard agreed in a whisper.

He stood stoically still as Frank placed an arm around his waist, letting his fingers roam and rub Gerard’s lower back. Frank’s other hand found Gerard’s hip, and he rubbed the bone in slow circles. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Gerard mumbled. Since Bert, he hadn’t been able to remember what intimacy felt like. Not that this was intimate, he reminded himself, this was work. This was them recreating intimacy. This was them playing the game.

Trying to seem bold and confident, Gerard wrapped his arms around Frank’s neck and pulled them flush against each other. Frank’s breathing was hot on his face, and everywhere his hands touched, it burned. The coffee was still churning and bubbling in the apartment, but Gerard could hardly distinguish the strong scent from Frank’s intoxicating smell of leftover cologne from the night before and toothpaste and… morning. 

Frank smelled like mornings. He smelled like fresh sheets and fluffy pillows, of legs tangled between the blankets and the breeze filtering in through the open window. He smelled of sunlight streaming through the blinds and sleeping breath on the nape of necks. And Gerard wasn’t even sure how any of that held a scent, but it was the only thing that summed up Frank.

His smell was driving the older man crazy, and he didn’t know why. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to pull away, but then Frank kissed him.

It was both never-ending and too quick. Frank’s lips glided across his with just enough pressure and pleasure that Gerard felt himself spinning. He gripped Frank tighter to him and responded with his eyes squeezed tight as though opening them would make this moment end. Frank’s scent was now all around the detective as was his taste. Frank tasted like last night’s toothpaste and a hint of stale soda. 

Frank kissed him like they were actually in a relationship, and Gerard kissed him back like he still wasn’t mourning the loss of a dead one.

In all reality, though, Gerard couldn’t even fathom remembrances of how Bert tasted or kissed when Frank was sucking on his lip and pushing his tongue into Gerard’s mouth and exploring every crevice of it. Gerard was dizzy; he couldn’t remember when last he took a breath because all he could think about was Frank. 

No one had ever kissed him like this before. Not even Bert. No one had ever made Gerard’s stomach do somersaults or made him forget where he was and who he was. 

But just as quickly as Frank’s lips had been upon his, they were gone. Frank stepped back and stared down at his feet. “I guess we’ll practice more before the party, then?”

Gerard nodded, speechless.

“S-sorry if I came on too suddenly. I-it’s just kissing, right. I mean, it’s just work.”

Work, Gerard reminded himself, this was work. He nodded again and watched Frank walk away, suddenly noticing the subtle curve of his ass and the even more subtle swing of his hips.

He tried to wash the taste of Frank out his mouth with black coffee, but it didn’t work. The damned kid was stuck on his tongue, and Gerard didn’t know what was worse: that he had never been kissed like that by anyone or that he had actually liked it.

III.

 

 

The hospital smelled like death. That’s all Vic could think about as he and Mike sat in their mother’s room, staring at the waxy corpse that could hardly be called a human being any longer. Her body was spent. The drugs and withdrawal had turned the once beautiful woman into a skeleton at best. Vic hated looking at her. He hated looking over and thinking of her lifeless body in Verdala Park, not breathing.

Thankfully, though, the hospital had been able to stabilize her. She was breathing with the help of respirators. However, this had nothing to do with drugs, the doctors said. This wasn’t an overdose or a symptom of withdrawal. She had been injected with oxygen, and oxygen injected in the body was lethal.

Vic couldn’t understand why his mother would inject air into her body. Had she simply missed the feeling of the needle against her vein? Had she wanted to die?

Vic hadn’t told Mike about the phone call. He saw no reason to stress his younger brother out more than he already was. It would be criminal for Vic to do that when the phone call could have been nothing more than a wrong number. And even as Vic tried to convince himself of this, he couldn’t help but think that the voice had sounded familiar.

Finally sick of seeing the body of his mother, unconscious and unmoving, Vic excused himself to go to the vending machines for a shitty breakfast of chips or donuts or whatever was in there. He doubted he could stomach much, but Mike looked like he could use some food. Double shifts and anxiety had taken its toll on his brother. There were shadows under his eyes and lines on his face. He had lost weight that he probably was skinnier than Vic at this point in time.

Waiting in line for the vending machine, Vic finally checked his text messages. His battery was dangerously low, and he was conserving what little he had until they left the hospital later in the afternoon for Vic to go get ready for classes. He had tried to convince Mike that the professors would understand if Vic missed this class because of a family crisis, but Mike would hear of nothing interfering with Vic’s education. 

He read a few messages from Jaime, who had been told by Mike what was happening and was worried for Vic. Vic sent a quick reply that he was well.

The last message on his phone was from Kellin: Vic, I need you.

Frowning, Vic stared hard at the message. He couldn’t decipher it. Was it just some sentiment Kellin had wanted to Vic to see, or was it something deeper? Vic thought of the word ‘faggot’ carved into his skin and of the bruises all over Kellin’s body.

Panicking, he called Kellin and listened to the ringing of the line, fidgeting from anxiety. The line rang and rang and rang until, finally, Vic’s call came through.

“Kellin, what’s wrong?!” Vic sounded frantic as he rambled. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. My mom, she’s in the hospital.”

Silence.

“Kellin?” 

Finally, heavy breathing that sounded nothing like Kellin answered Vic and the familiar voice from before hissed out, “Faggot.”

Before Vic could even say anything in reply, the line went dead. And Vic was left in the hospital feeling much worse than when he had walked in it. Kellin needed Vic, and the boy didn’t have a single clue as to why.

 

  
IV.

 

 

Shane Valdez lived in a house towards the southern tip of Cooperstown. It was set basically in the middle of nowhere as his parents had bequeathed it to their son before setting off on a cruise around the Mediterranean and purchasing a villa in Greece to spend their retirement years in. Since then, Shane paid rent on the place and kept it in livable conditions. It probably would’ve been simpler to sell the house and move to a smaller place that required less upkeep, but the isolated house allowed for Shane to play the drums and his stereo as loud as he liked, and it was also useful as he had built not only a photography studio in it, but his very own dark room in the basement.

Spencer adored Shane’s house. Even though it was only his second visit to the building, he couldn’t quite control his amazement at the magnificent house. The hedges in the front yard were clipped to near perfection, and the trees scattered around the yard were full of orange and scarlet and sienna hues that made the house look like a picture from a children’s book.

In the recesses of his mind, Spencer wished that he and Jon could live in a place like Shane’s. The house on First Street was nice and quaint and suited their needs, but it held nothing but memories of anguish and regret for Spencer. It held nothing but reminders that Jon was Cassie’s and would never be Spencer’s.

He trekked up to the wraparound porch and to the door where he rang the bell. IT chimed lightly throughout the home, and only four seconds later did Shane appear at the doorway, smiling despite the grogginess. “Spencer! What a pleasant surprise!”

He stepped aside and allowed Spencer entrance to the spacious foyer where he slid off his shoes. “I-- I wanted to talk to you about something, Shane?”

The other quirked a knowing brow and smirked as he led the way to the kitchen. “Jon still not head over heels for you?”

Spencer slumped. “Not in the slightest. But, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“You’re here to see if I still want a nude photos shoot of you, huh?” Shane rummaged around the cupboards before pulling out a half-empty bottle of Jack and pouring two shots. At Spencer’s look, he laughed, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

Reluctantly, Spencer accepted the shot and downed it, wishing the harsh taste down his throat would erase images of Jon and Cassie. “I feel like I owe you, ya know? Like, I didn’t mean to use you to make Jon jealous. I honestly wanted drum lessons to impress him.”

“You were doing well at those.”

Spencer nodded. “And I haven’t even had a chance to show him yet! I don’t want to spend my whole life pining away for something that’s never going to happen.”

“So I’m your back-up plan?” Shane teased.

“No!” Spencer exclaimed, blushing. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t know. At the bar, when we kissed, I mean, I couldn’t remember much, but what if I had felt something and just don’t remember it?”

“D’you think you’d feel something sober?”

Spencer shrugged. “Maybe.”

Shane leaned against the counter and swished the liquor in his mouth. “D-do you want to try it?”

Staring at the empty shot glass, Spencer bit his lip. He was in love with Jon Walker, that much he knew. But he was in love with Jon in a pathetic puppy-love sort of way. He loved Jon in a way he would love someone with whom he simply could not do without. But it was clear that Jon was not interested in his advances. Jon was straight; that much was clear, too. Shane was, well, Shane was new and refreshing and he was interested in Spencer. He wasn’t a second choice so much as he might be a new start for the younger.

“Yes.”

“Alright. Come here,” Shane instructed.

Surprised at how confident his tone was, Spencer approached Shane with anticipation instead of nervousness. He approached Shane surely and didn’t even jump when Shane snaked an arm around his waist.

“You’re beautiful, Spencer, you know that?” he murmured.

Spencer swallowed as Shane’s lips neared his.

“You’d look so beautiful without any clothes on, too,” he went on, only a hairsbreadth away from Spencer. “You’re art, Spencer,” he chuckled, “I appreciate beautiful art.”

At that, Spencer smiled and closed the distance between their lips.

Kissing Shane wasn’t what Spencer had imagined it would be. The sensation didn’t erase thoughts of Jon from his mind or weaken his attraction for the other man. But it was nice. The warm taste of whiskey in his mouth slid seamlessly with Shane’s, and he could test the aspiration in the older man. The future of theirs together. The beauty of it, as Shane might put it.

It was new and exhilarating, and Spencer felt like he finally tasted something besides heartbreak.

V.

 

 

Miles away from the Valdez Manor, back at the hospital, Alex Gaskarth still sat in Jack’s room with a chair pulled close to his bed and a hand gripping tight to his best friend’s hand. Jack didn’t squeeze his hand back or indicate that he knew Alex was there. Alex wanted to cry, but he didn’t have anymore tears left in him. He wasn’t sad anymore so much as numb.

“Jacky,” Alex whispered, “You have to wake up. Your parents want to pull the plug. They’re giving it until Wednesday. Jacky, you can do this. I know you can.”

But Jack didn’t respond; he never did.

“There’s always a reason to live for, Jack, just like there’s always a reason to wake up. Please, you’ve got to wake up. For me, Jack?”

Again, Jack did not respond, and Alex could hear the hysteria growing in his voice.

“You’re my best friend, Jack. You’ve been with me through good times and bad times, a-and right now I really need you. Fuck, my brother died on me, Jack; don’t you die on me, too. I need you in my life b-because you’re my reason to live. Without you, life wouldn’t be the same. There’d be less ‘your mom’ jokes and less tit jokes and less _you_. I can’t live without you, Jack. You’re my everything. I love you.”

Shaking, Alex laid his head down on Jack’s lap from his seat and closed his eyes. In another life, he could feel Jack’s hands carding through his hair and whispering little sentiments to him. He could hear the love and affection in Jack’s voice.

(Alex had been drinking. Of course he’d been drinking, he and Lisa had just broken up, and he was a train-wreck. It was stupid, too, because Alex had always said how much of a bitch Lisa was and how much he didn’t need her or want her. But fact of the matter was, that Lisa had been company. She had been passion and affection, and that was everything Alex had ever wanted in life: somebody to love him and hold him and kiss him. Someone he could eventually start a life with and marry and raise a family with. Alex was hopeless like that.

He’d drunk with Rian until Rian had dropped him off at his house and brought him to his room (Rian was always sober) before his date with Cassadee. Then, he had left. He left like everyone else did, and Alex was all alone. He stole a bottle of rum from downstairs and sat in his room, drinking it straight from the bottle and crying into it like the pathetic college kid he was.

A knock on the door interrupted him from his thoughts, and he hiccupped. “Who’s there?”

“Lex, it’s me,” Jack’s voice whispered, and he entered the room.

Rian must’ve told Jack that Alex was drunk and upset. Rian told Jack everything because he thought that Jack was some sort of antidote for Alex. But he was wrong because the sight of Jack made Alex cry harder because now Jack could see how fucking pathetic Alex looked right now, sobbing into his booze. He cried and gripped the neck of the bottle tighter as though it were a lifeline.

“Lex,” Jack cooed and knelt down beside his best friend before gently wrestling the bottle form Alex’s drunken fingers. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” Alex glared. “Y-you get drunk, too.”

Jack scoffed. “I don’t get drunk because I’m fucked, Alex. I get drunk to fuck.”

Alex giggled, but that only made him sob more.

“What’s wrong?”

“L-lisa,” Alex slurred.

“You said you didn’t even like Lisa!” Jack accused.

“I l-liked the company, Jack. Now I’m gonna die old and alone and p-pathetic.”

“You’re not going to die alone, Alex.” Jack rolled his eyes. “You’ll have me. We’ll ride through the retirement homes together, staring up nurses’ skirts and tripping visitors with out canes. We’ll shit everywhere when they serve crappy food, and we’ll have to take Viagra every night because we’ll still be getting some that’s how hot we’ll still be.”

Alex hiccupped again. “S-stop that, Jack.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop making me feel better!” Alex wiped the tears from his eyes. “F-fuck, I just want to be drunk and miserable, and you always fucking ruin it.”

“Alex,” sighed Jack, and he pulled his friend close to him, slowly coaxing Alex’s head into his lap in order to run his fingers through his hair. It was one of the things that calmed Alex down. “You don’t deserve to be miserable, and you’re never going to be alone in life. Me and you, we’re best friends, and that means we’re attached to each other.”

“Attached at the hip,” murmured Alex sleepily.

“No, attached at the dick,” Jack snickered and watched the corners of Alex’s lips twitch.

“Jacky?”

“Yeah?”

“Y-you love me, don’t you?” Alex was drunk and almost asleep. He wasn’t going to remember any of this in the morning.

Jack paused for a minute and swallowed. He continued carding his hand through Alex’s hair and ignored the question until Alex’s soft snores issued around the room. Then, placing a kiss in his friend’s hair, he whispered, “Yes, Alex. I do.”)

Now, Alex wished that Jack would stroke his hair, but his best friend was in a coma. He was hooked up to machines that would be pulled in three days time unless he woke up.

The odds were stacked against them.

VI.

 

  
Detective Ray Toro sat in his office, in Monroeville, studying the documents on the murder case. They’d dubbed it the Cooperstown Killings, and he’d spent many a nights pouring over every detail of the case. Gerard had written a list of suspects down, and at the top of the list was Zack Merrick: notorious homophobe of the campus. But something in murders made Ray think that Merrick wasn’t the man they were looking for. All of the other suspects had had alibis that had checked out, and they had been crossed off.

Ray studied the autopsies. He studied the deaths the way the police predicted they happened. Greta Salpeter and Tom Gaskarth had been found with a gun and a bottle of pills, but no prints. Jamia Nestor and Jack Barakat were both alive and injured; Ray stared at the pictures of their injuries. Cuts and gashes down the length of their backs and even their stomachs. And now, a man was missing.

Ray furrowed his brow and stared at the markings on Jamia and Jack. They looked familiar, and he wasn’t sure why. They looked almost… strategic. As though they were a design.

Staring and pondering over the case, Ray eventually packed up the folder and went home to his doting wife for his lunch break. Christa kissed his cheek when he came home and made the two of them soup and sandwiches. Then, when Ray took a seat on the couch, Christa peered over his shoulder at the case he had again begun observing as she massaged his shoulders.

“You work too much, Ray,” she said.

“People are dying, Christa.”

“I know, Ray,” she sighed, “I want this bastard found, too. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He craned his head and kissed her hand on his shoulder. “I doubt it. Not unless you can help me identify these markings.” He gestured to the pictures of Jack and Jamia. He even gestured to the pictures of Greta and Tom who also had the markings.

Christa gasped. “I’ve seen those before.”

“You have?!”

“Yes!” Christa seized the pictures. “The abdomen being sliced. A-and it looks like they aimed for the diaphragm, too. Th-that’s what the Aztecs did in their sacrificial rituals. They would then extract the heart from the sacrifices.”

“All of our victims had their hearts,” Ray pointed out.

“But don’t you see, Ray?” Christa exclaimed. “This isn’t a hate crime. The Aztecs sacrificed the people they believed were beautiful.”

“He kills them out of appreciation not anger?” asked Ray quizzically.

Christa nodded. “That’s why he gives them the pills first, so that the experience will be blissful for the victims. And that’s why he probably kidnapped that boy because the boy was so beautiful to him.”

“Christa, I’d marry you if I hadn’t already!” Ray jumped up and kissed her before gathering up his papers.

“And to think,” she giggled, “that you teased me about my history degree.”

VII.

 

Evening dawned around Cooperstown and bathed the city in pale periwinkles and fluffy purples that swarmed the setting sun. The last of its orange light dwindled on the horizon, and drizzled through the blinds in Patrick’s room. He and Pete were still tangled in bed together where they’d spent the entire day listening to music and placing butterfly kisses across each other’s skin. There was nothing sexual about it; it was pure and unadulterated love, and Patrick was so giddy at hearing their heartbeats in sync. 

“We’re official now, you know that?” Pete whispered. “Facebook says so.”

“I know, Pete.” Patrick smiled. “I accepted the request. Duh.”

Pete shrugged. “I’ve seen girls marry their best friends for giggles on Facebook. I thought you were doing the same.”

“Not marrying, but I am dating my best friend,” said Patrick in return, “but it’s not for giggles; it’s for love.”

Pete smiled at that and kissed Patrick’s voluptuous pink lips. Patrick was about to kiss Pete back as he pulled away but a vibration in his pocket caught him off guard. It was his friend, Joe. “He wants me to go to a party with him,” Patrick read to Pete.

“Then go!” Pete insisted. “It’s Saturday night; you deserve fun.”

“You don’t want to go?” 

“I have class later tonight.” Pete kissed Patrick again. “Go hang out with your friends.”

“I don’t even know who Zack Merrick is,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, but Joe will think you’ve replaced him with me, and that’s hardly fair.”

Patrick kissed Pete one last time and got ready for the party, pulling his favorite fedora hat on, a jacket, and a stray scarf he found before getting the directions from Joe and setting off the place. It wasn’t unusual for Patrick to leave Pete alone in his and Brendon’s place. He’d already gone to class and gone shopping and run errands while Pete stayed in the house, sleeping or watching crappy cartoons. It was always funny to leave Pete alone, though, because whenever Patrick came back, Pete always acted like a dog who hadn’t seen its owner in forever. He showered Patrick in kisses and cuddles and affection, but he never took it too far. He never once let his hands stray or his mouth to leave Patrick’s lips or to even suggest something sexual. He had told Patrick that when Patrick felt comfortable to take things past kissing to let Pete know. And Patrick had greatly appreciated it because he knew Pete had obviously had girls (and maybe guys) in his bed and could probably still. But for some reason, Pete was irrevocably in love with virgin little Patrick Stump. Some part of Patrick always felt special because of that.

Patrick wasn’t ready for a sexual relationship- not yet, anyways. But he did know he wanted his first time to be with Pete. He wanted his first time to be with someone he loved and someone he loved back.

He drove through the strip district of Cooperstown with a little help from Joe’s directions. It would be nice to go out and hang with Joe. Patrick had hardly had a chance to tell Joe about how he and Pete were reunited and in love again.

The apartment building loomed in front of him as he made another turn down a shanty side street. It was in need of upkeep; graffiti painted most of it, and now there were college students everywhere: on the stoop, hanging on the fire escape, and even in the streets partying. Patrick wasn’t surprised that there was no police involvement; this was the slums of Cooperstown.

He parked the car a few blocks away, on a safer looking street, locked it up and trekked over to the party, texting Joe the whole way. Joe was running late as he had scarfed up a date last minute. The news made Patrick anticipatory, and his anxiety ran high. He was shy and bad at meeting new people.

“Hey, look!” he heard someone shout to their friends. “It’s Fagtrick Stump.”

Patrick stopped dead in his tracks and looked to the other side of the street where a group of three college students stood. Patrick recognized them from one of his classes, but he couldn’t remember any of their names; all he could remember was their notoriety for homophobic, sexist, and racist comments. His pulse quickened, and he didn’t know whether to pretend he hadn’t heard them and keep walking or to run for it. 

He stood frozen in place as they crossed the street towards him. They were all extremely muscular and chiseled and they reeked of stale beer. He bit his lip and took a few steps back until he hit a brick wall. 

“H-hey,” he stammered, “l-long time, no see?”

“What’re you here for?” one of the guys asked threateningly. “Here to suck dick for money?”

Patrick’s voice was lost in his throat, and he could do nothing but shake his head.

Another of the men snickered, “Hey, buddy, I got some hot dogs in my freezer. Want me to get some Vaseline? You could have a wild time.” They all tittered like little girls, and Patrick still couldn’t move or speak.

“We were on the scout for some pussy tonight, but you look like way more fun,” the ringleader snarled.

Patrick couldn’t feel any of his limbs, and he could feel tears rimming in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall in front of these… bullies. He wished he could send a text to Pete asking him for help. Asking him to save him, but his phone was tucked into his pocket, and he knew these men wouldn’t let him pull it out for anything.

The third man leaned in close to Patrick’s face and let his boozy breath splay across his skin. “We’re gonna give you exactly what you queers like.”

They laughed drunkenly as two of them grabbed Patrick’s arms and held them tight. Patrick could feel the mix of fear and adrenaline swarming inside of him, and his eyes darted around the street looking for someone to save him. There was no one. He kicked and squirmed as they dragged him into the alley. 

“P-please.” He found his voice and gasped, “L-let me go. P-please.”

They cackled, “You fucking little fags all love this shit, though, don’t you?”

One of them punched Patrick straight in the jaw, and he staggered to the ground, his fedora rolling away down the alley. Fresh blood bubbled to the surface and dripped down his face. He groaned in pain as he felt a foot aimed straight at his stomach. Once… twice… thrice…. He was sure he heard something crack inside him.

“S-stop. O-ohgod, Pete,” Patrick moaned in pain. His body was on fire, and he was nearly sobbing from the impacts. He tried to kick as one of them forced his pants down, but it was no use. Every time he resisted; one of them would hold him down.

He was crying now. He couldn’t help it; they were too strong, and he couldn’t fight them. He was helpless. He was going to be dirty and disgusting. No one would ever love him now- least of all, Pete.

He heard the sound of the zipper from one of the men before he was roughly flipped over. His face made contact with the asphalt and he heard the obscene cracking of his glasses. Tears were flowing freely from his eyes, and he could taste blood in his mouth. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, but all he could do was cry out for help in the lone night.

VIII.

 

 

Brendon had stayed in bed all day. He had skipped all of his classes, refused to eat, and cried into Dallon’s pillow. The other man had brought Brendon to his hotel to seek refuge from the happiness that was Pete and Patrick. It wasn’t their fault that they were happy, and Brendon was miserable. He hadn’t yet told Pete that Ryan had gone missing. In fact, Brendon wouldn’t have known had William not called him after a call from the police, seeing as William had been Ryan’s roommate. 

Every time Brendon closed his eyes, all he could think about was Ryan. All he saw was the empty bed in Abbotts Close where they had spent so much time together. He remembered Ryan’s touches and his whispers and his kisses. He remembered all the affection the two had shared together. But then Brendon also thought of what was happening to Ryan now. No one was making him shitty coffee or cuddling up to him between the sheets or waltzing with him through fields for cheesy picnic dates. He was probably in a cold, dark basement, probably beaten and sore, maybe being tortured. He knew Ryan always liked to pretend he was strong, but Brendon knew that Ryan was probably scared right now.

Absently, Brendon wondered if Ryan was missing him.

“Brendon, I made you dinner,” Dallon whispered to him when the sun had set and darkness had fallen around Cooperstown. By ‘made dinner’, Dallon meant that he had gone to get fast food for the two of them, but it didn’t matter. Brendon didn’t have an appetite for processed food or homemade food. He was sick.

“Brendon, they’ll find him,” Dallon assured him, sitting on the edge of his bed and rubbing Brendon’s back, “He’ll be okay.”

“I really loved him, Dallon,” Brendon choked, “It fucking sucks. I mean, I know we weren’t talking, and he was mad at me, and maybe I’m still mad at him. But that doesn’t erase all the moments we had together. That doesn’t change the fact that I loved him- maybe even still love him.”

Dallon’s hand froze. “You still love him?”

Brendon nodded. His voice sounded hollow, “Of course. I don’t think you ever truly stop loving someone. Maybe you don’t love them in the same way you used to, but you never stop loving someone. Ryan, he was such an integral part of my life for so long. G-god, I miss him. N-not even in a romantic way- more of a ‘I hope he’s okay’ way.”

“This sucks, I know,” Dallon said calmly, “but torturing yourself and hurting yourself isn’t going to get Ryan back. You have to eat.”

“Food isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Brendon,” Dallon asked quietly, “do you think Ryan loved you?”

“H-he never really said it, but I-I think he did…. Why?”

“Well.” Dallon bit his lip. “If he did, he’d want you to be happy.”

“This isn’t about me being happy!” Brendon shouted. “This is about Ryan being kidnapped!”

“He wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself for him,” Dallon went on, “He’d want you to keep your chin up and have confidence that he’ll be okay. Never destroy yourself for anyone. You’re better than that, Bren.”

Brendon sniffled. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you, Brendon,” Dallon sighed, “Maybe not as well as Ryan did, but I’d like to know you like that. I know you’re a beautiful, selfless person who has the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. You’re forgiving and talented and fucking lovely. You’re wonderful, Brendon. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You don’t deserve all of this hurt.”

Brendon remained quiet; he didn’t really know what to say to that. His short time with Dallon had been some of the happiest moments of Brendon’s life, despite the break-up. He liked being in a relationship with Dallon. It felt secure and stable, and Brendon truly did feel like Dallon cared about him and thought all of those wonderful things about him.

“Let’s get away from this, Brendon,” Dallon continued, “Come to Salt Lake City with me for a visit. Next weekend, when you don’t have classes, let’s get away from here for a little. Let’s get away from all this murder and mystery and heartbreak.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“R-ryan.”

“There’s nothing you can do for Ryan, Brendon,” said Dallon firmly, “There’s nothing you can do for him that the police can’t. The best thing you can do for Ryan is to be optimistic and live your life.”

“What if they find him, and he’s lonely, Dall? What if he needs me?”

Dallon leaned over Brendon and kissed his cheek. “If he loved you, then he’d wait for you.”

IX.

 

Music reverberated all around the apartment. It was well past eleven by now, and Gerard knew that this was well past Cooperstown sound curfew, but he also doubted the police would bother. The squad often forgot about this part of Cooperstown simply because it was a low-income neighborhood that didn’t deserve the perks of a police squad like the ritzier parts did. They didn’t deserve the protection and security simply because they didn’t have as much money, or so politics would dictate.

 

Gerard and Frank had been at the party for two hours, and they had seen nothing more than obscene dancing, overly drunk undergraduates, and horrid games of spin the bottle that ultimately ended in lesbian action. Zack wasn’t any drunker than any of the other students on site, and he wasn’t doing anything that would warrant suspicion. He was chugging beer through a funnel and laughing and telling lame, slurred stories. 

The two of them had tried their best to be a couple. There hadn’t been much more practice at their own apartment besides two surprise kisses from Frank that had Gerard’s heart palpitating and his blood rushing and his mind spinning. Kissing Frank made Gerard forget all about Bert; it was nice, actually.

They sat on the moth-eaten sofa, staring at their surroundings before Lisa took a seat next to them. She wasn’t drunk, albeit a little tipsy, and she seemed comfortably happy in the wildness of the night.

“Glad you two came, then?” she asked.

Gerard nodded.

“Zack wanted to get to know you two better, I guess,” she rambled on, “but Zack’s never been too well at managing his alcohol intake.”

Gerard and Frank hadn’t even touched a drink. 

“It’s okay,” Frank assured her, “it’s a party.”

“You two are a cute couple,” she said with a smile on her face.

“Thanks,” Frank said and kissed Gerard’s cheek with ease.

Gerard ducked his head and hoped his face wasn’t burning red. Trying to shake out of this mysterious daze, he asked Lisa, “What’s Zack like?”

She laughed, “Oh, he tries to be scary and intimidating, but he’s a real teddy bear. And loyal, too. Hasn’t cheated on me once.”

“Th-that’s nice.”

“Yeah, well… the heart wants what the heart wants.” Lisa was tipsy enough to ramble on about her life and secrets, Gerard observed. “Zack and I almost didn’t get together. I was with this other kid, his name’s Alex Gaskarth .Was dating him a while back, but then I met Zack.” She smiled nostalgically. “They used to be friends, but then the whole me-Zack-Alex drama came into play.”

 

“Drama?” Gerard inquired.

She nodded and sipped her mixed drink held daintily in one hand. “Zack didn’t think Alex deserved me. We both had our suspicions that he was in love with his best friend, Jack.”

Gerard chose his words carefully, “Zack doesn’t believe in different types of love?”

Lisa didn’t seem fazed at all, “He was definitely brought up not to, but since we’ve been together, he’s definitely not been so vocal about his beliefs. I mean, I don’t want to change him, but I can help him understand. I know he used to bully a lot of gay people, but I’m helping him make amends with those people and himself.”

Gerard frowned. That didn’t sound like their suspect at all. Before he could ask another question, Zack stumbled over to them and kissed Lisa on the cheek as he threw an arm around her. “Great party, guys!”

Frank leaned over and whispered to Gerard, “If Lisa’s right about Zack, we might have the wrong guy.”

Gerard nodded helplessly. They’d lost so many hours of the investigation over this… if Lisa was being honest about Zack. “What should we do?” he murmured back.

Frank shrugged. “If you can’t beat them, join them?”

Gerard fidgeted in his seat. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since rehab. It was so tempting, but he knew a single sip would do him in. The addiction would eat him alive again, and he couldn’t risk it. Not anymore. He was trying to change. Without Bert, he was going to become a better person.

“F-Frank, I….”

But Gerard didn’t have to say a single thing because Frank grabbed his hand, said goodbye to Lisa, and led Gerard out of the apartment. “How about we go and find someplace for a coffee date?”

Something inside Gerard warmed substantially, and he smiled.

X.

 

 

It was nighttime. Or daytime. Kellin couldn’t tell as he blinked his eyes open. He didn’t know where he was, but he could see there were no windows. It was dark and smelled musty like a wet basement. There was the dripping of a leaky pipe heard overhead, and the sound of a crackling television set upstairs. 

He felt disoriented, and he tried to move. Tried to stand up and walk. But he was dizzy, and his hand was handcuffed to a pipe. He jiggled the restraints and struggled, but they were firm and held him in place.

He tried to remember what had happened to him when he left his house for Vic’s, but nothing particular came to memory. All he could think about was something hitting him in the head, and now he had woken up here. Trouble was, he wasn’t even sure where ‘here’ was.

Wondering if Vic knew he was gone, Kellin collapsed against the damp wall. He needed Vic. Hell, he missed Vic. The boy had made such an impact in his life in their short time of knowing each other, but Kellin couldn’t help himself. Vic was all he could think about half the time. He wanted to help Vic. Not fix him because Vic didn’t need fixed or changed. Vic simply needed to be loved. He needed someone to talk to about his mother and the man who had hurt him. He needed someone to kiss his cuts and give him a reason to keep going.

Kellin wanted to be that reason.

The sound of a creaking floorboard overhead alerted Kellin that he was not alone. He heard the rattling of a doorknob and the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. The imminent odor of pot filtered in with the figure and cheap perfume that reminded Kellin of patchouli oil. 

“Well, well, well.” Kellin could hear the smirk in the voice. “Look who’s awake.”

It was a voice he had never heard before, but he managed the courage to growl back, “Who the fuck are you?”

The man chuckled and leaned in towards Kellin, but it was too dark to see his face. A gruff hand grabbed his face and stroked his cheek jeeringly. “You goddamn queer. You fucking faggot.”

Kellin tried not to think of his father spitting those exact same words at him in what felt like another lifetime.

“Don’t you see,” he chuckled, “Vic is mine. And you mean nothing to him.”

Then the man was gone, just like that, and Kellin struggled against his restraints for freedom, praying to the only thing left that he believed in: Vic Fuentes.


	14. Melt-Your-Headaches

#### Sunday

 

  
I.

 

 

It was an impact zone, that he was sure of. His body felt worn and used, as though the entirety of the universe had weighed itself down on his shoulders, as though it were squeezing and suffocating every breath out of him. His head was spinning, and nausea settled deep inside his stomach. He couldn’t remember much of what happened last night, nor could he remember why he felt like such shit. He’d simply gone for a few drinks at a local bar; Ryan certainly didn’t remember getting into any fights that would leave him as bruised as he was.

He sat up and looked around the unfamiliar room. It was nearly pitch black, save for a hanging red bulb above his head that settled the room into an eerie glow that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. Blinking away some disorientation, Ryan realized he was laying atop of a large canopy bed, draped entirely in what felt like silk. The hanging bulb illuminated the fabric until it looked like Ryan was sitting in a pool of translucent blood. Trembling slightly, he tried to climb out of the bed only to hear a jingle of metal with his movements. 

He bit his lip.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be true.

This basement, covered in fine red silk and what looked like large cupboards that could be full of anything, this couldn’t be real. This had to be some nightmare. 

Of course, Ryan had read about kidnappings and sex dungeons and all of that. It’s just, when he was reading it, he never expected it would turn into his life. 

All of a sudden, there was the low chiming of a clock in the basement; its echoes resonated around Ryan and made his heart beat rapidly as he heard a jostling of feet above him. As he heard a jostling of feet getting closer.

And Ryan could do nothing but sit on the bed as he tried to fight with the handcuffs that restrained him to this hell.

 

 

II.

 

 

They found him in the nowhere hours. It had been a few sober students leaving the party and walking back to their respective apartments when they stumbled upon a crumbled body, beaten and bloody and nearly unconscious, in the middle of a darkened alley. Immediately, the ambulance was called as the blood pooled around their shoes.

At four in the morning, Patrick Stump was transferred to Monroeville General and had been flung in-and-out of consciousness the entire night. The nurses heard him murmur a name in his sleep, but none of them could ever discern it. They heard him sob and cry, watched him thrash in his sleep, and wake from fretful nightmares.

But finally, that Sunday morning, Patrick finally woke up with a clear mind that wasn’t running on disorienting painkillers. He blinked into the midmorning light and whimpered from the pain with each movement in his joints. He felt sick.

“Morning,” a quiet voice whispered. Had the television not been muted, Patrick wouldn’t have even heard it.

The voice startled him, though, and he jumped a little until his eyes keyed in on a figure beside the bed. It was the form of Pete Wentz, and he looked like shit: his eyes were red and puffy, his eyeliner was smeared, and his lip was bleeding and chapped as though he’d been biting it for the better part of the night. Patrick squinted at the blurry shape of his boyfriend until Pete suddenly slid a pair of glasses over his eyes. 

“Brendon showed me where you kept your spare pair,” Pete whispered, his voice the same low register, as though he were afraid to speak properly.

“Th-thanks,” stuttered Patrick.

The hospital filled with a humming silence that scared Patrick. All he could wonder was how much Pete knew about the attack. Did he know all the horrifying details? Did he know how disgusting Patrick was now? Did he know that Patrick was no longer the perfection that he longed for? Did he know that Patrick was now used up? Worthless?

“A-are you okay?”

Patrick shook his head and bit his lip, trying to ignore the tears welling in his eyes. “I-it hurts.”

Pete nodded and reached for Patrick’s hand, but Patrick retracted them under the blankets in a swift mood. “The doctors say you’ve a few broken ribs. Some contusions. S-some bleeding.”

Patrick sniffled.

“I’ll kill them for you, Trick, you know that? W-when I find who did this to you, I’ll kill them.”

Whimpering, Patrick whispered, “I’m sorry, Pete.”

“…what?!”

“I-it’s okay if you don’t want to be here,” he murmured. His face was beet red, and the tears were flowing properly.

“Trick, what’s wrong?!” This time, Pete wound his hands under the covers to lace his with Patrick’s. And even though Patrick tried to struggle out of his grip, Pete held on tight.

“Y-you wanted to be my first kiss,” Patrick cried, “a-and I wanted you to be my first everything. I’m so sorry, Pete.”

“No!” Pete shook his head vehemently and brought Patrick’s struggling hand to his lips, kissing every individual digit. “No no no, don’t talk like that, Trick. Don’t say things like that.”

“I’m so disgusting, Pete!” Patrick sobbed and choked and wheezed. “Oh god, I-I’m gross a-and ugly. Ohgod, I c-could’ve stopped them!”

“Patrick, no!” This time, Pete’s eyes welled with tears as he continued dotting kisses on Patrick’s hand and wrist and up his arm. “You’re so beautiful, Trick. You’re not disgusting. Don’t talk like that.”

“But it’s true!” he wailed, “H-how can you even look at me?!”

Standing up, Pete clambered into the tiny hospital bed, cuddling next to his boyfriend, and planting a kiss on his quivering lips. Patrick shook in his arms, but Pete wrapped his secure ones around Patrick and nuzzled his neck, dotting kisses on him. “You’re perfect, Trick. A-and I’m sorry for what happened to you. You can talk to me about it anytime you want, but that’s only if you want to. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I also don’t want you to think those thoughts. What they did to you was disgusting, but you’re not. You could never be.”

“Oh god, Pete.” Patrick was hyperventilating with every sob. “Th-they raped me!”

“I know,” Pete sniffled and every expanse of skin on Patrick that he could find. “I’m so sorry.”

“H-how can you even look at me now?” Patrick slammed his eyes shut tight, as though half of him expected this was a sick sort of nightmare brought on by the drugs he was on. “H-how will you ever touch me again?”

“Patrick, I love you,” Pete whispered into his ear before kissing that, too, “and I will always be here to hug you or kiss you or care for you… or touch you… but only if you want me to. Alright?”

He nodded.

Pete trailed kisses down his jaw line, taking extra precaution around the tender bruise. “But that’s not important right now, okay? What’s important is your recovery. I-I’m gonna leave you to sleep.”

Pete slowly, almost reluctantly, released Patrick from his grip and sat up in the bed. He was about to crawl out of it when a hand grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie and gently tugged. A small voice whispered out, “Stay. Please?”

Smiling through his heartbreak, Pete nodded and laid beside Patrick once more. He pulled him tight and watched the younger, vulnerable boy bury his face into the crook of Pete’s neck. He could feel Patrick’s sharp breaths and hidden sobs against his skin, so Pete kissed the top of his head.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, but he didn’t really mean it. It was always good to cry after something terrible happened. It’s just, Pete never knew anything else to say when someone was upset.

“Th-they wouldn’t stop,” he whispered, “a-and it wouldn’t end. E-eventually I just, sort of, detached myself from the situation. I-I thought of you. All I wanted was you,” he choked out.

Pete hugged his boyfriend tighter, dotting more kisses along his head. “And you have me, Trick. And you’re never going to lose me. I fucking love you, okay, Patrick? You’re the only thing I want in this world, and you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. B-back in Chicago, you saved me. Now, it’s my turn to save you.”

The tears kept flowing, but when disaster strikes, there’s not much one can do to ever stop the tears. Besides, Pete thought, it was better a broken heart than no heart at all. That applied to the both of them.

 

 

III.

 

 

Abbotts Close was nothing more than a skeleton. It was a shell of what it had once been. Sure, the rows of cheap housing were the same as was the cracks in the pavement and the potholes in the asphalted road and the cluster-fuck of cars all parked on the side of the road. Sure, it was the same, but something had changed dramatically, William observed as Gabe’s Mercedes-Benz pushed closer and closer to his apartment.

Even the apartment was the same, really. The same crumb-filled counters and shag carpeting and overfilled ash trays and stench of rank dishes. It was the same, but it was also missing something.

Or maybe William was missing something. He couldn’t really tell as he struggled with fitting the key into the lock and entering the apartment for the first time in what felt like days. Tripping into the apartment, Gabe grabbed him around the waist to steady him and murmured into the back of his neck, “You alright?”

William nodded, but he was lying. He was always lying: either to others or himself. The dried cuts across his hands were the only proof that William had ever been honest in his life. Had they not been there, he would have assumed last night had been a dream. Ryan couldn’t be gone, and he couldn’t have given a piece of himself to Gabe that he’d never shown anyone. The guilty side of him. The vulnerable side. The sobbing side. The side that is nothing more than flesh and blood.

William would’ve liked if people thought he were invincible. It would always be easier if people thought he were like that. He hated people fussing over him, and he hated opening himself up to get hurt. He hated blaming himself.

But William wasn’t invincible, that much was clear. He hurt, he cried, he broke. But Gabe was refreshing for him. Gabe was like stitches. He mended the breakage. He healed William in subtle ways like bandaging his cuts and giving him a shoulder to cry on whenever the guilt gnawed away at him until William was a little less than flesh and blood. 

William wondered if Gabe could ever be a cure for missing someone.

“They’ll find him,” whispered Gabe.

William nodded, feeling lost. “I know,” he swallowed, “I just need to get used to him not being here. Ryan, he was always here for me.”

“You’re a good friend, William. There’s nothing more you can do.”

William nodded again and collapsed onto the chair that Ryan usually claimed for himself. There was a vague scent of ink from that time the pen exploded everywhere and even the hint of a frying laptop battery was hidden in the material. William only missed Ryan more. 

“D-do you think he’s alright?” William dared to ask.

Gabe nodded. “I’m sure he is.”

William sighed and tried to relax on the chair, but the ghost of Ryan’s presence kept haunting him.

“I’ll make coffee,” Gabe mumbled, mostly to himself, and entered the tiny kitchen and began preparing the grounds and pot of water together. He collected mugs and spoons and creamer, trying to make as much noise as possible in order to rid the place of its eerie haunting.

Gabe had never really known Ryan. Pete had always known Ryan, never Gabe, but there was something in the way William cared for his roommate that had Gabe wishing the spindly boy would walk through the threshold at any moment. Sure, Gabe and William were new in this whole ‘relationship’ thing, but Gabe cared for William. He cared for William in a way that Gabe never really knew he could care for another person.

Last night, Gabe had listened in euphoria as William’s heartbeats synched with his own in his sleep. Last night, Gabe had kissed the cuts on William’s skin; and that old saying where no matter how much you love somebody, you’ll step back when their blood pools around you, well that just wasn’t true. And, sure, Gabe didn’t love William. He barely knew William, for that matter. But Gabe definitely cared for William, and if that wasn’t a form of love, then Gabe wasn’t sure he understood the word at all.

Soon, the apartment was filled with the thick aroma of coffee, and Gabe sat gingerly upon the armrest of the chair William had buried himself in. He was staring down at his Converse as though his shoes suddenly held all the answers to the universe.

“I need to come home, Gabe,” William said with an air of finality. He gestured around the place, “When Ryan comes back, I want him to know nothing’s changed since he’s been gone.”

Gabe nodded in agreement. “Do you want me to spend the night with you?”

William shook his head. “I’m a big boy.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Gabe, “Everyone hurts.”

Carding a hand through his hair, William replied, “I have a feeling if you stayed tonight, Gabe, I’d never want you to leave.”

“I don’t have to leave,” Gabe muttered in return, kissing William’s cheek.

William smiled faintly, but he’d only ever heard those words before when they were broken.

 

 

IV.

 

 

With Pete visiting Patrick in the hospital, the tiny home was nearly empty and lonely. Brendon woke up to silence and did his chores in silence and eventually blasted music so loud that the neighbors made a complaint in order to alleviate the silence. Brendon always liked noise; he always reveled in the feeling of accompanying sounds. Ryan had always been silent in their relationship. He’d always been one for quiet and pondering and listening to the ambient noises instead of prefabricated ones. Brendon could never fucking stand that.

He was alone this morning. He had sought refuge from Dallon and his invitation to Salt Lake City. Of course, though, Brendon wanted to get away from the ghosts of Cooperstown and the wind whispering Ryan’s name with every breeze. He wanted to erase the pavement cracks that had Ryan’s footprints in them, and the tidal waves clapping infinitely for a kiss that was nothing more than a memory to the boy. But something was rooting him into the city. There was a magnetic pull too heavy on him and too burdened with the heavy heart of love.

Spencer came over around eleven as he said he would. He didn’t knock, he didn’t wipe his shoes on the mat, and he didn’t restrain himself from plopping his feet onto the coffee table as he reclined back on the couch, sipping daintily from a bottle of iced tea. 

“Everything okay, Brendon?” he asked tentatively, even though he already knew the answer.

Brendon shrugged and picked at a loose thread on his jeans, trying not to think of Ryan. But the feat was impossible; Ryan was everywhere, more so now that he was gone.

“They will find him. He’ll be okay, Brendon.”

“But he won’t love me, still.”

“Aren’t you with Dallon?”

Again, Brendon shrugged.

Spencer frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“He wants me to visit Salt Lake City with him. He wants to get me away from all of this. Spence, I thought I was ready to move on, but I don’t know!”

“You still love Ryan?” Spencer quirked a brow.

Brendon huffed, “Of course I still love him! I’m always going to love Ryan! He was my first everything. B-but I really want to be with Dallon. He’s new and refreshing a-and stable and secure. He’s what I wished Ryan had been.”

“Then be with Dallon,” Spencer stated simply.

“It’s not that simple!” Brendon raised his voice, “What if I told you to just go and be with Jon?!”

“This is different, Brendon. Because Jon doesn’t care for me the way Dallon cares for you.”

“I barely know him!”

“But you do know him. And maybe you don’t know all of him, yet, but that’s what a relationship is for, Brendon. A relationship is an opportunity to grow with someone.”

Brendon’s body went limp against the cushions of the couch as he processed Spencer’s words. Relationships were for growth. They were also for hurt and anger and lust and sadness and… passion. Brendon missed having a passion in his life. Ryan had taken the spark from him, and Dallon had reignited it. Brendon loved the feeling of their lips melding together and their hands intertwining until their bodies were tangled up in the essence of each other. 

But this still didn’t mean that Brendon wanted to run away to Salt Like City with Dallon, even if it were a temporary trip. Because what if Cooperstown was nothing more than the glue in their relationship? What if their newfound attraction couldn’t sustain in a city where their was no pain and drama? What if their relationship was built on a mutual pining for a relationship that once was?

It seemed silly, but when you took away the city and the places and memories associated with them, well all you had would be Brendon Urie and Dallon Weekes. All you would have is a fucked up kid and a jaded mortician. Beneath all that, there was only flesh and blood. They were nothing more than a complicated circulatory system. They were nothing more than arteries and capillaries. Neurons and synapses. Heartbeats and pulses. 

Dallon’s pulse beat in Brendon’s mind like a chord on his guitar.

If all they were was building blocks of nerves, then did anything else matter? Even the most complicated being in the world is nothing more than a different set of proteins and molecules. Brendon and Dallon were no different. They were human down to the very core. And being human hurt because, stripped away of homes and memories and associations, they were naked. They were exposed and vulnerable and nothing more than cells firing messages across the body. How could anyone love a mass of cells when everyone was the same mass of cells?

Brendon told Spencer all of this because he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to cry or play his guitar or write the saddest song in the world. But none of those seemed right.

“Brendon.” Spencer shook his head. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Of course, down to the very core of it, you’re both the same. You’re both human. But you’re also different. There’s a theory that, well, that we’re all made from the stars. That all the gases from stars are inside us. That, down to the core, we were spun from stardust. Brendon, even if we’ve all the same chemical makeup, it is not how we were made that creates who we are. It’s how we use that makeup we were given.”

“Brendon,” Spencer continued, “Dallon cares about you. It’s not because you’re a similar mass of cells to him. It’s because you’re you. You’re Brendon, and you’ve got a big heart and big smile and you’re lovely, okay?”

Brendon wanted to believe that, but all he could think of was how he and Ryan had nothing in common but the way their blood pushed through their veins.

“Can I ask you something, Brendon?”

“Sure,” said Brendon sullenly, trying to ignore these miserable thoughts that must’ve been a side effect of being in a relationship with Ryan. If Brendon and Dallon were stars, then Ryan must’ve been a black hole.

“I agreed to a nude photo shoot with Shane. I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think I’m just doing this to make Jon jealous still. I want to be in a relationship with Shane, but I would still have one foot in the door if Jon ever even fucking looked my way. That’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” agreed Brendon, “but there’s always something special about the first person you love. It’s like you’re obliged to love them because they introduced this wonderful feeling to you. The problem is, they’re also always the first to break it.”

“’What do I do then?” wheedled Spencer.

“You do what you want. Not what Shane wants and not what Jon wants,” Brendon said, “I’ve spent long enough being everyone’s puppet, Spencer. I’m sick of trying to please people. I’m just tired.”

Spencer’s smile was sad and sorrowful, but in Brendon’s mind, it was nothing more than a pulsar.

 

 

V.

 

 

“This doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

“What do you mean?”

“Merrick fit the fucking profile. We had a goddamn profile, and Ray flips it around. He’s not homophobic; he’s homosexual, himself. We’re back to the drawing board!”

“Frank, calm down,” Gerard said sharply, “I know you want to avenge Jamia, but losing your head is not the way to do it. We don’t have to start over. We can remain undercover. We’ll infiltrate the bar Ryan was at. That creep’s obviously been going there for sometime, just biding his time.” 

“Well, then, what about Kellin Quinn? He was taken right off the streets.”

Gerard shook his head. “I don’t think Kellin was taken by our guy. The kidnapping was too unpredictable… too sloppy.”

“So we have another sick bastard out there?”

Gerard nodded. “It would appear so.”

“Fuck,” Frank growled and sat down on the couch in their temporarily leased apartment. “So what you’re saying is, we have to infiltrate a gay bar and garner this murderer’s attention?”

Gerard hummed in acquiescence. “Either we pose as bait or we witness him drugging someone else.”

Frank groaned, “How am I even supposed to trust you?”

Gerard’s face faltered. “What?”

“You want me to trust you with my life. How can I do that? Just a week or two ago you thought I was some punk ass kid!” Frank didn’t know where this sudden outburst had come from. Maybe it was the fact that this investigation was getting too real for him. Maybe he wasn’t as immortal as he originally thought he was. He could die any moment.

Gerard trembled from anxiety, and his fingers fumbled with his cigarettes before lighting one up with shaking hands and letting a pool of smoke waft unsurely from his mouth. He took a deep breath. “Fine, Frank. I’m going to let you trust me in the only way I know how… I’m going to trust you.”

He didn’t know why he even needed Frank’s trust. Gerard could just as simply call up Ray and ask him for his back-up. But every time Gerard’s mind reverted to that alternative, he couldn’t help but remember the way Frank’s lips had felt against his. The static and the electric that had surged through Gerard had made the recovering detective feel alive. For once, he had kissed a pair of lips that didn’t taste like addiction. They tasted sweeter.

Gerard paused for an inhale before beginning, “I’ve never really told anyone this, okay? But I trust you in this investigation, Frank. I’m not sure why, either, because you really are just some punk ass kid. I don’t know. I guess, I realized I’m too old to be this cynical.”

“So what’re you going to tell me?”

“I’m going to tell you why I don’t drink anymore, okay?”

Frank fell silent and nodded.

Gerard continued, “It started with this guy. His name was Bert. He was my best friend, dropped out of the police academy, but I didn’t lose touch with him. Because he kept inviting back for parties. By that time, he was slowly drinking more and more, slowly working his way up from pot to harder drugs. He was slipping away.” Gerard paused here and cleared his throat, “I wanted to save him. I don’t know why, I guess I was in love with him. I thought, maybe, I could be his knight in shining armor. Whatever it was, I fell for him and started drinking, too, to get closer to him.”

The atmosphere in the room had changed. Both Frank and Gerard felt it. The air felt heavier around the both of them, and a poignant silence danced with the smoke from his cigarette.

“Eventually, our relationship turned into one-night stands and then… we were stable. Or somewhat stable. He said he loved me and promised me a better life; and I used all my income to support his drug addiction. One day, he almost overdosed in my arms, a-and I made him swear to get clean for me. He promised me he would, said he loved me, and I was too stupid to see past the lies.”

“D-did he die?” Frank asked when Gerard’s pregnant silence became unbearable.

“No,” Gerard whispered, “he didn’t. He told me, one day, after I stopped lending him money, that he had used me. Used me for drugs and sex and money. He told me I was nothing to him, so I started drinking more than I already was. I started drinking until I became almost like him, Frank. I lost myself.”

“How’d you recover?”

Taking a deep breath, Gerard answered, “My partner, Ray, noticed the effect my drinking was taking on myself. He convinced me to go to rehab. He helped wean me off of Bert.”

Gerard finished his cigarette in silence and stubbed it out, leaving the room in an echo of its stench. The story hadn’t necessarily been the most touching story he could have told, but for some reason it resonated within Frank. He didn’t see Gerard as a hard-ass detective anymore, rather he saw him as a heartbroken man who had been kicked way too many times.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said with an air of finality.

“It’s not your fault,” he said listlessly in return.

“But I do trust you now, Gerard,” Frank told him.

“Thanks.”

Before Frank knew what he was doing, he had stood up from his spot on the couch and approached Gerard. Without even thinking, he leaned towards him and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace. Gerard froze in his arms, but Frank didn’t release him from his grip just yet. He listened to the pattering of Gerard’s heart and the rapidity of his pulse pushing just below his skin. Frank listened to his hitched breathing and felt his trembling body against his. 

But none of that really even mattered. All that really mattered was that Frank held onto Gerard, and Gerard surrendered to his touch and fell into him. And Frank held Gerard for a long time.

 

 

VI.

 

 

Thames Street was nearly empty that Sunday afternoon. It looked like a ghost town: many of the coffee shops were closed early and all that could be seen in their windows were chairs piled on tables. A few newspapers rolled across the street, and the bins were nearly empty. Vic kicked up gum wrappers and cigarette butts as he trekked across the street, past The Green Gentleman, and over to the apartment building where Jaime lived. He let himself in with his key that his friend had given him and tried to blink the tears from his eyes. 

He’d been crying to himself on-and-off throughout the day, not only due to his mother being in the hospital, but because Kellin was missing. It was strange because Vic could remember a time when Kellin had been obsolete in his life. He had just been another pompous law student at Cooperstown University, but now Vic couldn’t imagine not climbing up to the roof of 117 Carnot Avenue to visit the black-haired boy.

“Vic, what’s up?” Jaime asked as he emerged from behind the open refrigerator door with a cold beer in hand. He offered one to Vic, who took it gratefully and sipped the bitter, watery taste. “How’s your mom? Mike called and said she wasn’t doing too well when he left for work.”

“She’s fine,” lied Vic.

“Then what’s wrong?”

The two of them collapsed on the couch, and Jaime muted the television in order to hear Vic’s soft-spoken voice in the normally loud apartment.

Vic shrugged, but Jaime pressed on. He knew Vic long enough to know when his friend was lying.

“Kellin’s missing,” Vic finally admitted. His eyes were watering with tears, and Vic quickly wiped them. He was sick of crying already; it made him feel pathetic and useless. The only one who really had any room to cry would be Kellin; he was probably scared and alone and fucking lost.

“I heard about that, too,” Jaime said somberly.

“I don’t know what to do!” exclaimed Vic, “I mean, when I first met him, I just thought he was some pompous douche who was going to blackmail me because he knew my secret. But he wasn’t like that, Jaime. He was sweet and caring and fucking beautiful. He’s the kind of boy you’d only ever meet in fairytales, and now he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone, Vic,” Jaime consoled him.

“But he is! And it’s so shitty because I never got a chance to tell him what he meant to me. He saved me, Jaime. He saved me from himself. I owe it to him now to save him, too. I can’t live my life knowing that he’ll never know what he meant to me.”

“What did he mean to you?”

Vic ran his free hand through his hair in aggravation. “I don’t know, Jaime. I’ve never been in love, but I think, what we have together, I think that’s love.” It had to be, Vic added to himself. Because love is hurting when they hurt. Love is being happy when they’re happy. Love is being two halves of an emotion with someone else. Love isn’t all that propaganda bullshit on television where two opposite people find each other, hate each other, and eventually learn that their differences are what they were looking for their entire lives. Love is simply two people who share a profound bond with each other. Love was the stitching that had sewn Kellin and Vic to each other in this topsy-turvy world.

Jaime placed a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed protectively. Vic went limp against the touch and tried to regulate his breathing. This was all too much for him: Kellin and his mother. The cool touch of the razor to his wrist was so tempting, but Vic tried to push those monstrous thoughts away. The only thing keeping him from succumbing was how he imagined Kellin’s eyes would look when he saw the cuts again, pained and heartbroken. 

“Jaime?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know who took Kellin,” he murmured.

This alerted Jaime. “Who?!”

Vic’s voice was a dangerous whisper, “Obbo.”

“A-are you sure?” Jaime asked, “How do you know?”

“That voice on the phone,” he mumbled, “I recognized it. I-it was the same thing he growled to me when he… when he touched me!” At this, Vic finally broke down. All his strength and strong demeanor collapsed around him, and he collapsed into Jaime, who gathered him in his arms. 

“It’s okay, Vic. It’s okay.”

“I need him, Jaime,” Vic sobbed softly.

Jaime rocked Vic back-and-forth, whispering pick-me-uppers into his ear and cradling him the best he could from the vicious claws of the world around them. “We’ll find him together. Me and you, we are going to find Kellin.”

 

 

VII.

 

  
Alone in his hotel room, Dallon pattered around the emptiness, tidying it up in preparation for his impending trip back to Salt Lake City. He had invited Brendon along; of course, he had invited Brendon along. How could he not? Cooperstown held so much pain for the younger boy, and there was something about him that made Dallon want to protect him from the world. Even though he knew part of Brendon’s heart would always belong to Ryan Ross, Dallon couldn’t help but think that maybe there was room for two people inside his heart. Surely, Brendon must have felt the connection, too. He was, after all, the one who had initiated the kiss that cemented their relationship. Dallon wouldn’t have even made a move on Brendon, not wanting to end up as a rebound or a regret. He would have silently pined away until returning back home.

He knew he had been considering moving back up to Cooperstown and admitting himself into the university, but at the moment, returning home felt more plausible. It was nothing permanent, a temporary trip, unless Brendon did not want Dallon to return. In which case, Dallon would respect him. 

Part of him was simply hoping that Brendon would leave with him. He would agree that he was unable to do anything for Ryan at the moment, and he would take a train to Salt Lake City with Dallon. They would stay at Dallon’s place, by the lake. It was a spacious house with bird baths, a screen porch for the humid summers, and an old, dilapidated swing set from when his kids used to live with him.

Dallon missed that part of his life in Utah. He missed the ‘dad’ part. He even missed Breezy in a way that he simply had wanted the doting wife, the kids, and the white picket fence house. But things never worked out like that. There was fighting and crying and arguing. Eventually, she had stormed away with the children in the middle of the night; and the next Dallon heard from her was a packet of divorce papers in his mailbox.

Needless to say, he had tried to work things out for weeks before signing them. He gave her custody of the kids, with visitation on holidays for himself. He hadn’t wanted to make things harder for them; they were innocent in all of this. 

Sure, he missed his life. But he wouldn’t miss it so bad if Brendon would fill that hole inside him the way he wanted to fill Brendon’s.

Dallon sighed and was shaken out of his thoughts by a knock at the door.

He stared at it, puzzled, for Brendon had clearly said he had classes this afternoon. There was no way he was here.

Dallon opened the door in surprise to see Ian Crawford standing right in front of him. Only, Ian didn’t look like his usual chipper self. Their was something about him that made him look almost somber in his movements.

“Ian?”

Ian heaved a sigh, “Hey, Dallon.”

“What’s wrong?” Dallon asked, stepping aside to let his friend in the hotel. He hesitated at first before stepping in and standing awkwardly by the sofa.

“I have bad news….” Ian bit his lip. Dallon didn’t say anything, but he nodded in order to tell Ian to continue. The smaller man took another sigh, “There’s been an accident.”

“Is Brendon alright?!” Dallon immediately asked, fearing the worst.

“What?” Ian scrunched up his face. “Of course he is! Dallon, no, back at home… Breezy was in a car accident. She’s dead.”

Dallon could feel all the color drain from his face. His throat dried out, his balance swayed, and the room felt like it was swimming. “N-no, Ian, you’re joking,” he croaked.

“Dallon, the kids are alright. You need to go home, though. You need to take care of them.”

The next few hours felt like a blur for Dallon. Ian apologized profusely, made Dallon a cup of tea in the hotel’s microwave, and apologized once more before having to depart. The tea went cold in front of Dallon, and the sun slowly set. Nothing made sense anymore as his mind created a sick film of a car crash. Of the impact. He could see Breezy’s cold corpse in his mind, matted with blood and screaming until the last of her voice echoed hollowly inside his mind. Dallon felt sick.

It was an hour or two before Dallon even moved from the couch, having been lost in his mind and numb to the world around him. It was at that time that he grappled for his phone and dialed the only number he could even think about at that moment. His head was throbbing, but he had no aspirin and knew the only thing that would trump the pain inside his skull would be his voice.

“Hey, Dallon,” Brendon’s voice answered seamlessly. He sounded less troubled than he had yesterday, and Dallon envied that.

He managed to choke out, “H-hey.”

Brendon’s frown could be heard even over the phone lines. “What’s wrong?”

“B-brendon, I have to leave.”

“What do you mean?” Brendon sounded panicked. “Dallon, are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”

Yes, Dallon wanted to say, I want you to come over. He wanted Brendon to sleep beside him and stroke his hair and whisper all those things that Dallon told him over and over about Ryan. That it would be okay. That things would work out. He wanted Brendon to hold him and tell him that this was all a dream. Breezy was not dead. 

Because a part of Dallon loved Breezy the way that a part of Brendon loved Ryan. He knew it was over, and he was okay with moving on. But he had only ever wanted Breezy to be happy. She had been his everything, and she had deserved the everything that Dallon could not give her. Part of him had wanted her to leave and begin anew.

But Dallon didn’t say any of that to Brendon. It would be selfish to expect so much of him. “Brendon, I have to go back to Utah. Breezy, she died in a car crash. I need to go home for my kids.”

Brendon gasped, but he didn’t say anything.

Clearing his throat, Dallon continued, “I can’t bring them up here, Brendon. I can’t pull them away from their home. I’m their father; I’m all they have left. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Brendon’s voice quivered over the line, “I-it’s okay, Dallon. You need to go. For your kids.”

“I care about you, Bren,” Dallon whispered, “I still want you to come with me. Y-you don’t have to stay, but I need you.”

“Dallon--” Brendon began but was cut short.

“Please,” he begged, “My train leaves tomorrow at ten. Come with me.”

“Dallon,” Brendon’s voice was wavering, and Dallon could hear the suffocated sobs deep inside his throat, “I-I can’t. I can’t go with you. I’m sorry.”

And then he hung up. Before Dallon could even ask in a whimpering voice if Brendon would come over and stroke his hair and whisper sweet melt-your-headaches. Before Dallon could be selfish. His headache throbbed worse than ever as he listened to the dead line of his cellphone.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

Once upon a time, in what felt like another lifetime, they had walked along the shore. It was a silly memory, lost somewhere in time, of two Chuck Taylor-wearing boys galumphing down the west coast with their laughs following them where their footprints could not as the tide erased them from the beach. They were careless and carefree, shouting and joking and laughing. Their shirts had been whipped off in the summer heat, and their shirts had been thrown over the shoulders. Sometimes, their hands would brush as they walked.

“Alex,” the taller boy would laugh and smile brighter than the rays of the swelling sun, “would you ever fuck a chick with three tits?”

Alex laughed and frowned at his friend, “I dunno, Jack. I’ve only got two hands.”

Jack’s laugh whipped down the beach like a breeze and was washed out by the crash of waves of cawing of gulls. “You’ve got a mouth,” he pointed out.

Alex shrugged. “Seemed like that’d be too much work?” He paused and looked slyly at his friend. “Would you?”

“Sure!” Jack exclaimed, “Tits are tits.”

“Even man tits?” giggled Alex.

Jack hummed along and reached over, without warning, to grab one of Alex’s nipples, pinching it until Alex slapped his hand away.

“Jack, you’re fucking queer!”

“You liked it,” Jack taunted, “Now you’ve got a nipple boner.”

Alex rubbed his sore reddened nipple with a disgruntled look. “Why do you even want to talk about tits? Not getting enough from Holly?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Holly actually studies. She doesn’t have time for my unquenchable sex drive.”

Alex snorted, “If you mean your ‘erectile dysfunction’, then you’re right.”

Jack pushed him playfully towards the frothy white of the waves bubbling against the sand. “You should talk, Gaskarth. The only reason you’re not a virgin is because I take pity upon those like you.”

“The only reason I’m not a virgin is because your mom,” chuckled Alex.

Jack laughed too, and the sound was rich and crisp even against the summer day. The continued walking along the coast until their backs were sunburned (because they always forgot sunscreen) and their feet were blistering from the burning sand. Eventually, they paused under the shade of the pier.

“Hey, Alex?” Jack asked, leaning against the splintering wooden beam, “All joking aside, could you ever love a man?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, love a dude.” Jack shrugged.

“Have sex with him?”

“Sure.”

Alex shrugged. “I mean, I’m not gay--”

“This isn’t about being gay,” interrupted Jack, “Sexuality and love are not always synonymous. You can love a man if you’re straight, and you can love a man if you’re a lesbian, you know? Take away all those labels, Alex. None of them matter. Could you ever love a dude?”

Alex had been young and insecure and stupid and had replied with, “Well if labels don’t matter, then anyone could love anyone.”

Looking back on it, half asleep and daydreaming about that memory, Alex wished he would have said something different. He wished he would have looked Jack in the eyes and told him, _yes. Yes, I could love you_. But he hadn’t. Alex had ignored all the signs Jack had been throwing at him until it had been too late.

He was in the hospital again, having missed so many of his classes and not caring. He was wearing his brother’s New Found Glory shirt because he needed one familiar scent to cling onto. His head was lain upon Jack’s bed, and he was holding his friend’s hand like he’d been doing for days on end. Because if-- when, Alex corrected himself-- Jack woke up, he wanted Jack to know that Alex loved him back. 

Blinking his eyes into the evening light of the hospital, Alex realized that his hand was piercing with pain as though he’d knocked it into something hard.

He looked down, and what he saw made him shout for the nurses.

It took a few minutes for them to hear his calling. Two nurses, a doctor, and Jack’s parents came bustling into the room frantically, asking if their son was okay. What had happened?

“H-he was holding my hand,” Alex spluttered, “I mean, I was holding his hand; but he was squeezing it back! He was squeezing it back real hard.”

Jack’s parents looked at each other as the nurses checked Jack’s vitals with the doctor. They all frowned at Alex, “I’m sorry, but he hasn’t made any change in his health.”

“But he was holding my hand. I felt it!” Alex insisted.

Kindly, the nurses told him he must’ve been imaging it out of grief. Jack’s mother hugged him out of sorrow before explaining that they had to leave again for the night: they had work in the morning.

But Alex, glum and disappointed, didn’t leave for his classes, even though he had them in the morning. He resumed his post next to Jack’s bed and reached for his friend’s hand again. Even though Jack didn’t squeeze it again, Alex knew he hadn’t been imagining things.

 

 

IX.

 

 

A floor above where Jack Barakat was comatose, and a few doors down, there was another visitor spending the night with a patient. Pete laid in bed beside Patrick. Nurses had come and gone from the room, checking up on Patrick, but their hadn’t been anything new to report. They didn’t scold Pete from laying in the bed, as they pitied the two of them. Besides, Patrick’s physical ailments were in a stable and recovering condition; the only further thing to worry about was psychological trauma, they had said: post-traumatic stress disorder.

Patrick snoozed on, thanks to the pain medication for his ribs. He was nearly comatose and hadn’t awoken with the predicted nightmares, screaming and crying. It didn’t matter if he did because Pete was there for him. He would hold him and rock him and kiss him back to sleep. He would save Patrick.

However, his insomnia had caught the worst of him, and Pete was laying awake at eleven o’clock. This was fairly early, but Pete had also been awake since he had received the call from the hospital at five in the morning. Needless to say, his body was spent and worn.

But he couldn’t go to sleep knowing that Patrick might need him at any moment.

So Pete did the only sensible thing to do in times of trouble. He called a friend to help get him through it.

“Pete, how’re you holding up?” Gabe’s voice sounded like sweet relief.

Pete smiled and whispered, “I’m fine. Patrick will be fine, too, they say. How’s William?”

“Distraught,” sighed Gabe. “You heard about Ryan, I take it?”

“Yeah.” Pete’s voice caught in his throat. “I can’t take this, Gabe. Why is all this shit piling up like this?”

“It’s nothing you did,” soothed Gabe, “Don’t sit their in self-blame and self-hate. You need to be there for Patrick, right now.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t worry about Ryan, too,” Pete argued.

“True, but you also don’t need to be worrying others by not taking your medication again.”

“I just took it,” Pete said, which was true. 

“Anything you needed in particular, then?” Gabe asked.

“How do I help Patrick?” asked Pete, “I know I can’t erase what happened. But I don’t know how else to console him.”

“Just be there for him, Pete,” said Gabe wisely, “Do what you do best.”

Pete thanked Gabe and hung up. It took a few more moments before an epiphany graced Pete’s head, and he shuffled around for a pen and paper- two necessities he kept with him all the time.

Then, without further ado, he began to write:

_Honey is for bees, silly bear._

_Besides there’s jellybeans everywhere._

_It’s not what it seems in the land of dreams._

_Don’t worry your head just go to sleep…._

 

 

X.

 

 

The gay bar Ryan Ross had been kidnapped at was dubbed The Fever. It was an important, often overlooked, epicenter of nightlife in Cooperstown. The neon lights spilled onto the pavement in front like toxic waste, yet the club’s bouncer remained bathed in the shadows beside the inky black door, nearly completely covered in posters announcing musical acts at the club or special discounts on Thursday nights, etc. Gerard and Frank approached the man, showing identification and being allowed access into the club. They held hands to keep up their façade, and Gerard was glad that Frank trusted him enough to spoil his reputation across the campus for the sake of someone’s life.

The Fever’s pink pulsating lights lit up the dance floor where couples were grinding against each other. The music reverberated against Gerard’s eardrums as he and Frank sidled along the dance floor to the nearly full bar. Frank ordered some fruity drink, and Gerard simply asked for a water. They sat on the barstools and stared around the club.

“Do you think he’s here tonight?” murmured Frank.

Gerard shrugged.

“Staring around isn’t going to help us.” Gerard couldn’t help but agree.

Frank, then, spun around on the stool to face the pretty bartender. She had perky breasts overflowing in a tank top, a smile that clearly garnered her abundances of tips, a piercing in her cheek, and rippling eyes of amber. She smiled cheerily at him. “Can I help you?”

“You can, actually!” Frank replied cheerily, in return, “We’re- er- doing an investigation--” at this point, Gerard showed her his badge, “--and were wondering if you’ve seen anyone strange hanging around the club.”

“We get a lot of strange people here. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Frank chewed on his lip. “A man who might repeatedly buy drinks for another man, but always a different stranger every night. A man who personally hands them a drink instead of having you send it their way. A man who comes in and stares at the other men on the dance floor for some good time before even ordering anything to drink.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Yeah. I know a man like that. He’s right there.” She pointed towards the other end of the club.

Gerard and Frank spun around, nearly knocking the cherry drink from his hand, but it was no use. There was no man there. He had evaded them. He now knew they were hot on his trail.

 

 

XI.

 

 

It was midnight. The grandfather clock had finished chiming throughout the gabled house, and the entirety of the living room was silent, save for the chattering and laughing from the television. Its blue light rolled across the carpet and onto the two forms laying on the couch. Cassie was spending the night at Jon’s house as Spencer had stated that he was staying at Brendon. It had been a date night. Originally, they had invited Spencer along for dinner with them and Haley, but he had declined it. Jon didn’t know why. 

Part of him suspected it was because of the Shane Valdez character who had taken advantage of him in the bar. Jon hoped it wasn’t. He had already threatened the drunk man to never go near Spencer again and to never coerce his friend into something like that again. He had then dropped Valdez off at his manor and tucked Spencer into bed. 

Jon didn’t know why, but there was something about Spencer that enamored Jon, that made him want to protect him from the horrors of the world. Perhaps it was because Spencer was younger than him and naïve and willing to believe that people were inherently good in the world. Jon knew better than that. That’s how he knew Shane Valdez was no good. Why else would someone buy a lightweight copious shots of whiskey and then pounce on them in a public bar? It was baffling to Jon.

Cassie was whispering something excitedly to him about the boring television show there were watching, but Jon wasn’t listening. All he could think about was Spencer. His pool of sparkling blue eyes. The way he wrinkled his nose when he ate Jon’s burnt cooking but ate it anyways. The way he smiled and laughed and wished the best for Jon. The way Jon’s sheets only ever smelled like booze when Spencer had slept in them, but also the way Jon couldn’t find it in himself to wash the scent off for at least another day. 

“Sweetheart, are you even listening?” Cassie scolded him.

“Yeah,” Jon lied.

Cassie kissed his cheek and continued rambling on about one thing or another. Meanwhile, Jon conjured up more images of Spencer. His tousled bed head. His tiny stomach of puppy fat. His dimples on his pudgy cheeks. His eyes glistening every time Jon made a joke. His eyes crinkling in delight every time Jon looked his way….

Jon nearly started, but he remained still for Cassie’s sake. It had been so obvious all along; how could he not have seen it?

Jon was in love, yes, but not with Cassie. Jon was in love with Spencer Smith.

 

 

XII.

 

 

They were called the ‘Badlands’, and the nickname quite aptly depicted the slums where rows and rows of low-income housing (worse than Verdala Park) stood. There were dingy apartment buildings with broken windows and broken fire escapes. Every week their was a burglary or a rape or even a shooting down there. Vic and Jaime drove steadily through the empty streets, their headlights and radio turned down. They didn’t want any unwarranted attention. They were there for one reason and one reason only: Obbo.

Vic knew that Obbo lived here simply from listening to him speak. It was the only place Vic could imagine the drug dealer living, simply because there was no other neighborhood around notorious for its crime. Obbo sold cheap, hard drugs; the people in the Badlands were all addicts.

“Where exactly does he live?” Jaime whispered.

“He used to talk to my mom a lot,” Vic whispered back, feeling as though his voice carried down the street and into the apartments, even though the windows had been rolled up. “He used to invite her down to Rollins Street whenever she ran out of smack. I think he lives there.”

“There’s a lot of places on Rollins Street,” Jaime reminded Vic as he turned onto the aforementioned street.

“I know,” Vic sighed, carding a hand through his hair. When they had first clambered into the car to scout out Kellin, Vic had imagined that he would know Obbo’s house when he saw it. How could he not? Obbo had demeaned him and abused him and… touched him. How could he not just have a giant storm cloud floating over his house or a giant sign with his name printed on it?

“We’re going to find Kellin. If Obbo took him, we’re going to find him.”

“I know it was him, Jaime,” Vic said. He didn’t know why they didn’t call the police. Perhaps because of Vic’s innate fear of the cops. From a young age, his mother had warned both him and Mike that if the cops ever came by, they would be taken from her. He knew he was too old to be placed in a foster family’s care, but he was also old enough to know that the police could’ve arrested his mother so many times over the past few years. Of course he didn’t trust them.

It’s not like they were on a suicide mission, either. Jaime had a permit to carry a concealed weapon on him, and he had one attached to his hip at the moment. Vic didn’t have much, but he trusted Jaime with everything. That would have to be enough.

They had barely rolled down the entirety of Rollins Street when three men stopped the car and opened up the doors. They all had guns.


	15. In the Middle of a Gunfight

I.

 

 

When Vic regained his senses, he first noticed that he was not in Jaime’s car or on Rollins Street as he had last remembered. Rather, he was sitting on a chipped folding chair in the middle of a decrepit kitchen. The tiles on the wall were faded and peeling, and the cracks between them were coated with mildew. Vic wrinkled his nose and stared down at his feet, which he noticed were bound tightly to the legs of the chair with a length of cord. He tried to move, but an immediate wooziness came over him, and he felt disoriented as he tried to remember when exactly he had blacked out. He felt sick, as though he’d been drugged.

Behind him, he heard Jaime groan to indicate that he too was waking up from the spell.

“I don’t like this at all,” the two of them heard a strange voice rambling in the nearby room, “You said that kid’s rich ass dad would pay ransom for him. You said he’d only be there for a few days. You said that would be enough money to get us the fuck outta here! You never fucking said anything about kidnapping more--!”

“Fuck off, Blade,” another voice chimed in, and a cool chill ran down Vic’s spine as he recognized Obbo’s cold drawl. “We’ll dump them somewhere en route to the airport tomorrow morning.”

“How the fuck are we supposed to do that when that rich motherfucker never even sent us the ransom money for his son back?!”

Vic’s slipping thoughts raced to Kellin. He was here! Vic wondered if he’d be able to see him again before Obbo ‘dumped them somewhere’. He wondered if he would be able to tell Kellin that Kellin had saved him. That Kellin was the reason Vic was here, right now, and that if Kellin survived this- if they survived this- then Vic would never see another reason for his life to end. 

“Even if the kid’s dad doesn’t send the money, we still have one more batch to sell. That should be enough for the tickets, and we can wait for the ransom money.”

“And how the hell are we supposed to get a kidnapped boy onto a plane with us?!”

Vic could hear the smirk evident in Obbo’s voice. “Oh, he’ll cooperate with us. Or he’ll get his head blown off….”

Vic’s throat felt immensely dry, and he wasn’t sure if that was due to the drugs that were coursing through his system or not. All he knew was that their rescue attempt was going to fail. Obbo would likely kill him and Jaime, and Vic would never see Kellin again. 

“V-vic,” Jaime’s voice hissed to him in barely a whisper, “holy fuck, Vic.”

“Y-yeah?”

“This is a meth lab!”

Vic could feel the color drain from his face. It all made sense now. Obbo was peddling drugs and cooking crystal meth. Of course, the police were probably all over his ass by now, and he was hoping to cover it by flying out of Cooperstown. Probably down to Columbia or maybe even Mexico where he could tangle with the drug cartels and really fall into some riches. The expected ransom money for Kellin was going to pay for their new life when they got away from here; unfortunately, Vic and Jaime had almost foiled Obbo’s plan, and now he had hit a road bump. 

And now that the cogs of Vic’s mind were running again, he even thought about his mother’s hospitalization. It didn’t sound like his mother to try and kill herself by injecting herself with oxygen. If she’d wanted to do that, she would’ve just relapsed back onto the smack. No, Vic was sure that Obbo was involved in that as well. He was sure the drug dealer had tried to kill his mother because she wouldn’t hold ‘something’ for him. Vic wasn’t sure what that something had been, but thinking on it now, he was sure it was either Kellin or drugs.

“They took my gun,” Jaime muttered.

“They drugged us,” Vic whispered back to him.

But neither of them said the evident, _they’re going to kill us._

#### Sunday

 

 

II.

 

 

On Sunday morning, William returned to his classes after spending a few days holed up with Gabe’s company and mourning Ryan’s absence. Besides the constant pestering from Gabe that he had to continue his schooling or risk losing his scholarship, William had also received a call from his literature professor telling him he would like to talk with him after class. He had chuckled on the phone and assured William that he was not in trouble, but instead his professor was worried about him. So William had assured Professor Armstrong that he would be in class that morning.

Without waking Gabe from his tiny bed in Abbotts Close, William grabbed his schoolbag and crept out of the room. He knew that his boyfriend already stayed up throughout the night, thrashing and muttering, from the nightmares. William had overheard him whimpering one night when he had gotten up to piss, and instantly he had known that Gabe was reliving the sexual assault. So William had held him and had been extra careful in the early mornings not to wake Gabe up, just in case he’d gotten little sleep from the post-traumatic stress disorder.

Class was slightly disorienting for William, who was having trouble catching up on all the assignments he had missed in his absence. He had two papers to write, a book to read, and notes to study. He tried to push a memory out of his head of a time when this had happened before and Ryan had stayed up all night with him, drunk on caffeine and sugary foods, in order to help William finish his assignments. He remembered the two of them crashing the next day after class, right on the couch, too tired to go into their separate bedrooms. Shaking his head, William tried to ignore thoughts of Ryan and focus on his studies.

Eventually, after his class dragged on for an hour, William lagged behind while all of the other students filtered out of the classroom. Gathering his books up, he approached Professor Armstrong’s desk and cleared his throat, “You, uh, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, William, sit,” he instructed, and William obeyed. “I’m very worried about you.”

“Y-you’re the only teacher who’s said anything about my absences,” murmured William.

“Because you’re a bright student. You’re an excellent writer, too. One of my best, if I do say so, in confidence--” he winked, “So you can see why I’m worried.”

“It’s just-- personal issues,” stuttered William, “nothing to worry about.”

Professor Armstrong nodded in an understanding, pitying sort of way. “I won’t ask for details, but I will ask this: are you okay, William?”

It was such a simple question, but it weighed down on William like a stone. Was he okay? Was he okay with the way his life was going? It was the first time he could stop and think with clarity about that question? Gabe constantly asked him this, but he’d always assumed that Gabe felt obligated to do so. And in return, William felt obligated to assure him he was fine. But Professor Armstrong wasn’t obligated to ask how William was; in fact, he wasn’t obligated to care about any of his students at all. The answer, now, seemed very obvious.

“No, I’m not okay,” said William.

“I didn’t expect you to be.”

“What do I do?”

Professor Armstrong sighed, “Not knowing the nature of your problem, William, there’s not much I can do for you. And being a professor, there seems to be only one thing I can do. Here.” At that, he reached into his desk and pulled out a book, handing it to William with a hopeful smile. “Perhaps this will help. I know it pulled me out of a dark time when I was younger.”

The glossy title, _Man’s Search for Meaning_ , blared boldly at William as he thanked his professor and exited the classroom with his bag slung over his shoulders.

With the amount of work he had to catch up on, William didn’t think he’d have time to read the book, but as Gabe was still fast asleep when he returned to Abbotts Close, William curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and began flipping through the pages.

It was a decent book; although, William couldn’t really see the significance it would hold in his life. He wasn’t a psychiatrist trying to survive a concentration camp. His horrors weren’t anything comparable to that of victims of the Holocaust. William was beginning to think that Professor Armstrong had given him this book to subtly tell William that his problems could be a lot worse and that some people do, indeed, have it worse than he did. That was, until he stumbled upon it:

“ _Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality. No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him. By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees the potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized. Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities. By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true_.”

William read that section a few times before it finally sunk into his system. He closed the book and closed his eyes, merely thinking. It was something that had been bugging him for longer than Ryan’s disappearance: it was Gabe Saporta.

For a while, the haunting fear that this was nothing more than nightingale syndrome had nagged the back of William’s mind- even when Gabe seemed desperate to prove it William that this was anything back. He stared down at his still-bandaged hands and thought of the way Gabe had tended to his wounds and kissed the bleeding marks until Gabe was also covered in William’s blood. He remembered the intimacy of that moment, of Gabe seeing William as vulnerable as William had seen him.

And now, staring at Viktor Frankl’s quote, William suddenly realized that Gabe had been right all along. 

This was something more than nightingale syndrome, this was… love. William and Gabe had both seen each other’s innermost cores and had both grasped onto each other and held on tight. They were tangled up in each other and both trying desperately to make the other realize all he could be. William had told Gabe numerous times that he was not always destined to be an alcoholic playboy; and now Gabe was a loyal boyfriend who hadn’t touched a single drink since that dreadful night. They were not simply making the other one become ‘a better man’, but they were growing with each other. And that sounded a lot like love to William: growing with someone until your roots entwined.

Closing the book with a giddy smile on his face, William slipped into his bedroom and climbed back to bed with Gabe, throwing his arm around the older man’s waist and inhaling the scent of leftover aftershave and body wash from last night’s shower. 

“B-bill?” muttered Gabe in his sleep.

“Shh, I’m okay.” William tightened his grip around Gabe and was glad that this statement was finally true.

 

 

III.

 

 

The Sunday morning had progressed into a dull, blustery one with blistering winds that howled against window panes and flurries of leaves that breezed by in miasmas of colors that only seemed to make the gray sky more prominent. Watching from the car window as Ian’s rented car clunked down the bumpy back roads to the train station that would take Dallon back to Salt Lake City for good, Dallon felt miserable. He knew it wasn’t merely his mood mirroring the weather, but instead he knew it was because of Brendon’s declination of his invitation.

He wasn’t even sure why he had imagined that Brendon would accept. Brendon had friends in Cooperstown and roots. He wasn’t being forced back to ghost town where images of his dead ex-wife would haunt him as he raised two kids, alone. Maybe this was just the luck of a mortician, Dallon thought glumly, having to bury someone you once loved.

Maybe, eventually, all morticians put their lovers into body bags.

Brendon was right to get out of the ‘relationship’ while he could- or whatever the two of them had considered this to be. Sure, Brendon had insisted that this was a relationship; but Brendon had also been hung up on Ryan, for all Dallon knew this could’ve been some stunt to make the other man jealous. 

“Are you okay?” Ian asked timidly from the driver’s seat.

Dallon shrugged. “No,” he sighed, “I know I should be mourning Breezy right now, but it feels like I lost Brendon, too.”

“Dally, you don’t have to feel guilty for missing Brendon. He was the first person who meant anything to you since the divorce. It’s okay to miss him.”

“Ian, I think I loved him,” said Dallon.

“You knew him for such a short time, though.”

“He made me so happy, Ian, in ways that Breezy never did,” Dallon said, “I can’t help but miss him.”

“You’ll be okay, Dally,” Ian assured him as the train station loomed on the horizon and grew bigger and bigger with each acceleration of the car. “I’ll be down to visit as soon as I can. You’re a great father, don’t ever forget that.”

“I’m a shitty lover,” he muttered as Ian parked the car and Dallon climbed out of it.

Dallon knew that he should make the best out of this. He loved his kids and was looking forward to living with them again. The circumstances surrounding the entire situation were unfair for the both of them, though. They had lost a mother, and Dallon felt as though he had lost something more.

“I’ll call when I arrive.” Dallon waved Ian off as he climbed the steps to the station where he could already see the ticker signs declaring the departure time for Salt Lake City.

It was only after a few wrong turns into different terminals that Dallon finally found a bench outside his to sit and collect his thoughts. He was slightly early and would have to wait to board.

So his mind slipped back to thoughts of Brendon Urie, where it seemed to be most comfortable. Brendon had definitely patched up the hole that the divorce had shot through Dallon, and it had given the man a new path to look at. He used to be comfortable staring at dead bodies all day and not thinking of their lives or their pasts or their love ones. He simply thought of the body as nothing more than bundles of nerves, lumps of organs, coagulations of capillaries and veins, nothing more than pulses echoing throughout the limbs. Nothing more than beating hearts. But Brendon had made Dallon realize that human beings weren’t simply bodies.

They were stockpiled with memories and emotions and experiences and things that Dallon couldn’t tangibly see. Things that Dallon couldn’t cut up or prepare with formaldehyde. Brendon had made Dallon realize that human beings weren’t simply liars or cheaters or thieves. They were capable of love and intimacy and passion.

There was a boarding call for the Salt Lake City train, and Dallon stood up with a few other men in suits who looked to be going away on business trips. Their lovely wives and girlfriends kissed them goodbye and whispered that they would miss them. Dallon tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t been blessed with a lover like that.

He stepped forward towards the train when he was roughly grabbed from behind and spun around carelessly in a way that almost made him trip over his own two feet.

Dallon had hardly registered what was happening to him when he felt a pair of desperate lips against his own and a pair of familiar hands grabbing his face and pulling him in as close as possibly, as thought the passion ignited in the kiss would dwindle out if there were space between the two of them.

Having slammed his eyes shut in case this was a dream, Dallon pulled away and opened his eyes to see Brendon standing in front of him, bobbing on his heels and nervously biting his lip.

Dallon couldn’t help but laugh, “You always cut it close, don’t you?”

“You like it.”

“I do,” Dallon admitted, “I’m gonna miss that about you, Brendon.”

“Miss?” Brendon frowned. “What do you mean?”

And Dallon nearly dropped his suitcase when he saw Brendon hold up a train ticket en route to Salt Lake City.

 

 

IV.

 

 

Alex had not shaved or showered in a couple days. He could smell his own body odor as he laid his head on Jack’s sheets and held his friend’s hand hoping that he would squeeze it again and assure him that he was fine. That he would be out of his coma before the plug was pulled. The nurses wrinkled their noses at the disheveled state of Alex, but he could care less. He ignored them when they came in to check on Jack. His stomach growled as he had stopped eating food from the hospital cafeteria and the vending machines. He was much too afraid to leave Jack’s side as he was afraid he would show signs of life with no one around to witness them. He knew that the doctors and nurses didn’t believe that Jack had squeezed his hand, but Alex knew he wasn’t delusional.

It was that only thought that kept him through the day. The undying hope that Jack would squeeze his hand again. It was really all he needed.

“Alex, you’re scaring me,” Rian told him when he came in that Sunday afternoon. Alex had lost track of whether Rian was checking up on Jack or him.

“I’m fine, Rian,” he mumbled back in return, still holding Jack’s hand, “I’m waiting for Jack to wake up. He squeezed my hand, Rian, he really did.”

“A-alex, I believe you,” Rian said, “but, fuck, look at yourself! You look as sick as Jack does! You’re wasting away in here!”

Alex shook his head profusely. “I’m fine, Rian. I’m fine. Jack’s fine, too.”

“Alex, you’re scaring me.” Rian crouched down beside his friend, obviously ignoring the odor, “You can’t sit here and dwell on the future and forget to live. Jack wouldn’t want that.”

“Jack would want somebody to hold his hand!” Alex snapped fiercely.

“But not if it’s hurting them.”

“It’s not hurting me,” Alex hissed, “I’m fine. Jack’s going to be fine. He’s going to hold my hand.”

Rian blinked tears away from his red eyes and patted Alex’s shoulder before mumbling something about a date with Cassadee. He left Alex alone with Jack, and Alex was glad. How could Rian lose hope like that? How could he forget that Alex loved Jack and needed to be with him, in sickness and health? How could Rian be so fucking ignorant to all of this? The only sickness Alex had was homesickness- for Jack. He wasn’t wasting away, and he was sure that Jack would wake up and be happy to know Alex never left his side.  
But the more and more Alex explored different scenarios of Jack waking up from his coma, the more and more depressed Alex found himself.

He thought of his brother, Tom, who was buried six feet under and never to wake up from the coffin that held his body captive. He thought of his mother who was mourning Tom in solitude and fighting to live through each day. He thought of Jack’s parents who wanted to pull the plug because they didn’t believe that their son had a fighting chance. He thought of Rian who thought he was a wreck, and he thought of Lisa who had given up on him.

All the people that came and went from Alex’s life passed his mind and into his miserable thoughts that were slowly dragging him down. Eventually, he released Jack’s hand from his grip.

It was his fault, really, in the great scheme of things. It was his fault that Tom had died because Alex stole his New Found Glory t-shirt. It was his fault that his mother was miserable because it had been Tom, and not Alex, who had died. It was his fault that Jack was in a coma because he had lied to his best friend. It was even his fault that Lisa had given up on him because he was a failure.

Who could ever love Alex Gaskarth when he had caused so many people in his life pain?

He thought of Jack waking up from his coma and blaming Alex and yelling at him that this was all his fault. He thought of Jack calling him horrible names and telling him he never wanted to see him again. He thought of Jack hating him.

It was only noon, and Alex had memorized the schedules of the working nurses enough to know that none of them would be checking on Jack for another fifteen minutes. And Alex, he knew that was enough time for him to rid the hospital of the burden he had placed upon it.

Peeling off the New Found Glory shirt that stunk and clung to his body, Alex threw it off to the corner of the room. There was no use sullying anymore of Tom’s memory than he already had. Finally, he crossed over to the window and threw it open to hear the whistling of wind in his ears and the rough waves of traffic from below. Alex peered down to the pavement, floors and floors below. 

It would all be done so quickly, Alex knew, even as his nerves tightened in his body. He would barely feel the collision of his body on the concrete. He would be dead before he knew it. He would be able to see his brother again and apologize. He would be able to save his mother anymore disappointments, and he would be able to properly punish himself for what he had done to Jack. No one would ever have to worry about him or hate him or concern themselves with him.

He climbed up onto the sill. He thought of his funeral. Would it rain when his body was laid out or would the heavens rejoice, rather than cry, that the world had been purged of Alex Gaskarth? 

His foot slipped and his shoe fell off to the sidewalk below. Alex counted the floors as it passed them and watched it lay on the sidewalk, in reminiscent of what Alex’s body would eventually become.

He took a breath. His last, fleeting thought before he took a step was that, he wondered if Jack would really ever know that he had loved him. Truly and deeply loved him like he had never loved anybody else.

“Alex?!” A voice from behind made him lose his balance.

 

 

V.

 

 

The Valdez Manor hung high on the hill and cast a dull shadow on the dewy grass below. Spencer stared up it and made his way up the gravelly drive, listening to the rocks and dirt crunch beneath his shoes. He had taken a cab here after spending the night at Brendon’s for one more day. Brendon had seemed increasingly worried about the nude photo shoot and had told Spencer he didn’t think it was a good idea to be playing with fire. Brendon suggested to go talk to Jon one last time before he sprinted out and borrowed Spencer’s car in order to make it to the train station on time.

Now, Spencer was here, walking up to the manor to seal his fate with Shane. It wasn’t that he disliked Shane. In fact, Shane was quite attractive. The problem was that Spencer knew this ‘thing’ he had with Shane wasn’t going to erase the fact that he loved Jon. Spencer knew he would reach inevitable unhappiness in any relationship with Shane, but he also knew that this was his only way to distance himself from Jon. Spencer didn’t want to screw up Jon’s relationship with his sniveling crush; Jon deserved happiness, and if he wanted happiness with Cassie, he was more welcome to it.

“Spencer, glad you came!” Shane’s smile nearly split his face as he stepped aside for Spencer to enter the spacious foyer. 

Slipping off his shoes, Spencer stared around at the art hanging from the walls (one of which looked like an original Monet) and the various photography that Shane claimed were his. They were very nice pictures, too, as Shane was obviously very professional. He seemed to enjoy monotone colors with dashes of red mixed in. It was the only color that was ever prominent in the black-and-white photos.

“I think red is beautiful,” Shane explained to Spencer as he watched him eyeing the portraits. “It’s the color of blood. Of lust. Of love. Of anger. Of all those things that make us human.”

Spencer smiled. He liked that. It was so simple, so tragic, and so true. “Where’s your studio at?” he asked Shane.

“In the basement. First door on the left,” he instructed and smiled before leaning over to peck Spencer’s lips. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

“I want you to make me beautiful.”

“You are beautiful already.”

“I want you to exploit it then,” Spencer said, thinking only of Jon.

“I’m going to go get my equipment. Meet you down there,” Shane murmured before trooping up the stairs and leaving Spencer to open the door to Shane’s basement by himself.

Shane’s basement was not like other basements, Spencer came to discover as he walked down the rickety steps. It was nothing more than a long, concrete hallway where white stone walls hung over with dirt and cobwebs covering them. Spencer could hear a faucet dripping way off down the hallway behind one of the several doors down here. The doors looked newer than the walls, as though the original manor had not been built to resemble a labyrinth.

Spencer turned and opened the door, still thinking of nothing but Jon. And unfortunately for Spencer, Jon Walker always had a way of clouding up his mind because Spencer realized he’d opened up the door on the right; and now he realized why Shane had instructed otherwise.

 

 

VI.

 

 

For Patrick, leaving the hospital felt like nothing but a daze. The painkillers had eventually been flushed from his system, and he could no longer feel any physical pain. However, emotional trauma had been waging on in his head ever since the incident. He could do nothing but replay the events over-and-over in his head, blink away tears, and try to convince himself that Pete had been right: Patrick was not disgusting and Patrick had not deserved what had happened to him.

It was hard, though. If Patrick hadn’t deserved it, then why had God made it so?

“Patrick, are you okay?” Pete asked as he drove him back to the place he shared with Brendon. Patrick didn’t really want to see Brendon; he simply wanted solitude. However, Pete had objected against going to Evertree Crescent; he said what Patrick needed more than anything, at the moment, was familiarity.

“No, Pete,” whispered Patrick.

“You will be,” Pete tried to assure the both of them, “D-did you like my poem?”

At that, Patrick actually smiled. He remembered the words scrawled in black ink on a piece of notebook paper that Pete had handed him when he awoke. At first, Patrick thought it was a cheesy love poem or a bittersweet one, but it had been neither. It had been a poem about Pete and Patrick and healing and helping. The poem had comforted Patrick immensely, and it had reassured him that Pete would not leave him in his hour of need.

“Thank you for that, Pete,” said Patrick, “I loved it.”

“I know it’s not really helpful, but I can’t really think of any other way to help you cope,” Pete admitted, “I know this is going to be hard, and I know you can cope with it any way you want: if you want to scream at me or punch me or curl up in bed alone or surround yourself with a hundred different people….”

“Why would I want to do any of that?”

“What?”

“Pete, I-I want you by my side, okay? I don’t want this to be a big deal. I’m not a big deal.”

“Patrick!” Pete exclaimed, “You are a big deal! Don’t talk like that, please.”

Patrick nodded, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow his fault.

“How about we stay in and have a movie marathon tonight, huh?” Pete asked with a growing smile on his face, “I think I saw The Lost Boys in your movie collection last I was over.”

Patrick smiled as the two of them recited together, “Maggots, Michael. You’re eating maggots.”

They laughed, and Patrick knew this wasn’t a hollow laugh he was exhibiting to make Pete worry less. This was a real laugh. This was his eyes crinkling and his voice singing and his insides fluttering. For some reason, being around Pete made Patrick feel comfortable in his own skin. It was the only time Patrick ever felt like it was okay being himself.

Pete made Patrick feel as though he were perfect. As though his slightly chubby, socially awkward, nerdy, glasses-wearing, clumsy-self was perfect. It was strange, too, because Patrick had always had low self-esteem issues, even when he had first met Pete in Chicago all those years ago. But something had changed in either himself or Pete that made Patrick believe all those sweet nothings Pete whispered to him to make him feel better.

And even though somebody had raped him, Patrick began to feel that he wasn’t disgusting from that.

A part of him still replayed the incident and still insisted that he had deserved it. But Patrick didn’t feel dirty, and that was a start.

All thanks to Pete.

 

 

VII.

 

 

When Vic returned to consciousness again, he was no longer sitting tied to a chair with cords. He was, instead, in a musty basement with his cheek pressed to cold, wet concrete. His hands were still tied behind his back tightly, and the cord was digging into his wrists; Vic knew he should be used to that sort of pain, but something about it felt uncomfortable. He hadn’t even touched a razor to his skin in weeks.

The air was thick with the stench of mildewing pipes that were leaking inside the entire basement and causing the concrete to become cool and damp to the touch. Vic struggled to his feet and found that the drugs that they had forced into his system had made it nearly impossible to stand. His legs felt rubbery and useless, and he fell to the ground in a pained heap.

“Jaime?” Vic panted from the effort it had taken to stand up, in the first place.

“Vic?”

It wasn’t Jaime who replied back; rather, it was a voice that made Vic’s entire body feel numb and rubbery. He froze where he was and blinked into the darkness of the basement that engulfed him, as though squinting enough would somehow make the boy appear to him. “Kellin?!”

“Vic, fuck, I knew it was you!” Kellin sounded torn between crying and cheering.

“Where are you?” Vic’s voice was just as hysterical as he tried to follow the sound of Kellin’s voice, crawling the best he could with his legs that wouldn’t seem to function. He was sure that if it wasn’t pitch dark, he would also be having vision problems as well.

“I’m tied to these pipes. I can’t move!” Kellin answered, “H-how did you find me?”

“Jaime and I came looking for you. Th-those bastards caught us, though.”

“How’d you know where I was?”

Vic swallowed as he inched closer and closer towards Kellin’s sweetly pained voice. “I know the guy who took you, Kel. He was my mom’s dealer. H-he touched me when I was younger. H-he hurt me.”

When Kellin spoke again, Vic could hear his voice was thick with tears. “I know, Vic, and I am so, so sorry. Th-that’s why I was coming to your house when he took me. I was coming to keep you safe from the world.” He paused and decided to keep talking in order to enable Vic to find him in the dark. “My dad, he’s the one that’s been hurting me, Vic. He carved that word into my skin. He hurt me, and that’s why I never want to see you hurt. V-vic, I love you.”

It was there, in that instant, that Vic felt himself knock into Kellin. The boy was sitting on the ground, hands tied above his head to a pipe, and body leaning against the wall for support. Vic fought with his quivering legs in order to prop himself up beside Kellin and lean a head on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Kellin. I love you, too.”

“Vic, I’m so scared,” Kellin admitted, sounding so small in the dark. Vic had always seen Kellin as support and as indestructible. Now, he saw Kellin crumbling in front of him, and he didn’t know what else to do besides maneuver his head until he felt their lips touch.

It happened slowly, the kiss, as though blindness sped everything down. Vic merely grazed Kellin’s lips with his own before the other boy craned his neck in order to catch Vic’s lips in a fierce lock. They couldn’t touch each other or explore each other or even hold onto each other with an unspoken promise to never let go. All they could do was press their lips together and bump teeth and knock heads with every movement, but it was enough for the both of them.

Both their pulses were going wild inside their bodies, and Vic swore he could hear their hearts hammering in synchronization in the silence of the basement.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

Night had finally fallen in Cooperstown. The streetlamps powered on as the autumnal sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows from it cast themselves across the street of Abbotts Close. The blustering wind had cooled down into a shy breeze that drifted down the street and set the mood for William as he threw open the bedroom window to hear the cicadas chirping and the distant sound of traffic from downtown rolling along.

Gabe was about to return from his own classes for the evening. He and William had agreed on a simple date night to take their mind off all of the happenings in the city. Neither of them were to worry about classes or assignments or people they were missing or even pains that still occurred when William balled his hands into too tight of a fist. All of that was to be put on the sidelines as the two of them engulfed themselves in the other person.

It was pretty opportune for William, as well, he realized. He wondered if Professor Armstrong had somehow know that Viktor Frankl’s book would help William with more than just grief, alone. He wondered if somehow Professor Armstrong knew that the book would help William discover he was irrevocably in love.

He couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care if this sudden discovery was cliché or not. All William knew was that he and Gabe had intertwined their lives together until William could not imagine life without him- without being dramatic, of course. William had always been very independent and very sure of himself, but now he wanted to sacrifice just a tiny bit of that independence to let Gabe step into his life. He wanted Gabe to kiss his wounds and bandage him up. He wanted Gabe to hold him at night and whisper that everything would be alright. He wanted Gabe to simply be Gabe, and he to simply be William together.

“Bill, are you here?” Gabe called into the apartment when he entered and slipped off his shoes on the welcome mat.

Bill poked his head out from the bedroom and smiled at Gabe. “I’m here!”

“Thought you were going to stand me up,” Gabe joked.

“Would I be the first to stand up Gabriel Saporta?” William asked, raising a brow.

“You actually would be.”

“Oh, what an honor. I think I’ll go, then,” William laughed and tried to dart pass Gabe in the threshold but the older man reached out and circled his arms around William’s waist, trapping him there.

“I thought we had plans tonight, querido,” purred Gabe.

William felt himself go stiff in his grip. “W-we do.”

Gabe smiled. “Then let’s cook some terribly cheesy meal and watch even cheesier movies.”

“Gabe, why did you call me ‘darling’?” William asked. He had looked up Spanish words to say to Gabe one day to surprise the older man, and he recognized that word.

“H-how do you know that’s what I said?”

William shook his head. “I asked you a question first.”

“Guillermo, isn’t tonight about relaxing and not worrying about anything?” Gabe clearly was nervous.

For once in his life, William decided to take initiative. “Because I love you, too… just so you know.”

Gabe blinked and stared at William.

“I realized it this morning,” he said, “I realized that you and I belong together. And I don’t know how or why, but none of that matters when you love someone, right?”

“Right.” Gabe seemed dazed. “And I love you, too, querido. Te amo.”

William was already giddy and dizzy, but he still crashed his lips against Gabe’s intensely trying to pour all the passion he had for the other man into that kiss. Nothing mattered in Gabe’s grip: not Ryan’s disappearance or Tom’s death or the stressful amount of work he had to catch up on.

Gabe responded back as passionately. He nibbled William’s bottom lip, sucked on his top one, and swiped his long tongue fervently into William’s mouth. They remained like that, in the threshold of the bedroom, for quite sometime before William could feel Gabe walking him backwards towards the bed.

He almost panicked, for he had never been this far with anyone before. He had never been this intimate and open and honest with someone before, but William didn’t want to chicken out and make Gabe doubt his love for him. So he kept his grip around Gabe’s neck tight as Gabe laid him down onto the bed and dotted kisses down his neck.

William really wanted to enjoy the tingling sensations his body was experiencing, but it was hard to when all he could think about was how painful it might be to lose his virginity and whether or not he was ready for this.

“Relax, William,” Gabe purred and nuzzled his neck, “I know you’re not ready for _that._ Just let me make you feel good.”

And William smiled and closed his eyes, allowing Gabe’s lips to explore his body.

 

 

IX.

 

 

They had received the call a few hours early. However, traffic combined with the doctors’ insistence that he was not stable yet held them at bay. So Frank and Gerard had cruised mindlessly around Cooperstown, chain smoking and tapping their fingers against the dashboard until another call from the hospital assured them that it was an appropriate time to come.

It seemed that their victim, Jack Barakat, had finally awoken from his coma. He had awoken and was stable enough (as deemed by the doctors) to tell them who the culprit of the attack was, as he very vividly remembered. He wasn’t suffering from shock or amnesia, and he was speaking quite coherently. In fact, when Gerard had asked them to put Jack on the phone just so Gerard could be sure he was rather sane to interview, the boy had explained all about waking up from his coma. He had explained that he saw his best friend standing in the windowsill about to jump, and he explained that he had startled him into falling back into the hospital room. Apparently, Jack was only telling Gerard this to ensure that his friend, Alex, would be allowed to sit in with them on the interview.

Reminding himself that Frank was illegally on this case with him, Gerard agreed.

They barged into Jack’s room almost intrusively and found the boy sitting upright with an array of hospital food around him: pizza, chicken nuggets, and French fries drizzled with cheese were on trays in front of him. A shirtless boy was sitting at the bottom of the bed, smiling and sharing the mountains of food with his friend. His face was slightly cut and bleeding from what looked like shaving, and his hair was wet from a recent shower.

Gerard and Frank each shared a look.

It was obvious that this was a very intimate moment between the two of them, but Gerard wanted to avoid another comatose patient and realized they would have to ruin it for them in order to have Jack relive the accident. 

And when Frank and Gerard took chairs beside the bed to listen to Jack’s story, Gerard felt Frank hold his hand through the entire interview.

 

 

X.

 

 

Inside the door, the entire room was draped and cover in red- even red bulbs that hung bare from the ceiling and reflected around the room where veils and curtains and carpet all gleamed like blood and lust and love and anger and all those things Shane had said. A giant canopy bed stood in the middle of the room, and on it was a shadowy figure masked in the red light. 

There was struggled movement on the bed, and Spencer realized the figure was tied up.

His heart beat so loudly he was sure Shane would hear it. But he breathed evenly and closed his eyes, taking cautious footsteps towards the bed.

Part of him already knew who was on the bed, he just didn’t want to be near it.

He took a step closer as the figure on the bed struggled defiantly.

“Well, well, well, Spencer, looks like you took a wrong turn,” Shane’s voice cooed from the doorway.

Spencer jumped and turned away from Ryan’s tied-up form, “Shane, I-I didn’t mean to! I-I won’t tell anyone! I swear!”

“I’m sorry, Spencer.” And Shane did look surprisingly sorrowful. “You were so beautiful. It’s a shame the world will never see a pretty face like that again.”

And just like that Spencer heard the door lock. He and Ryan were both Shane Valdez’s captives.


	16. Yesterday's Arms

I.

 

 

Gerard’s car sped away from the hospital, punching almost triple digits on the highway as he and Frank maneuvered throughout traffic in a desperate effort to reach the Valdez Manor in Cooperstown. It was in that moment when Frank felt he was having some strange sort of revelation: this was it. This was the end of the case. They had finally cracked it and saved more lives.

They would be able to find Ryan, Gerard would never be questioned for being mentally unstable on anymore cases, and Frank would’ve avenged Jamia’s injuries. It’s just, when Frank thought hard about it, trying to ignore the dangerous way Gerard’s car shook and the way the highway roared beneath it, the more he felt empty about the ending.

Originally, he had imagined celebrations and congratulations and maybe even another chance with Jamia. But Frank realized none of that was going to happen, and he didn’t even want any of that anymore. Yet, he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what exactly was upsetting him.

Sighing to himself, he leaned back in the seat and glimpsed over at Gerard. He was biting his lip in aggravation as the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead loomed closer and closer to them. Gerard did not have a squad car on him, so it was impossible for them to fight through the hodge-podge of vehicles; after all, Frank wasn’t allowed to be on the case as it was, having him in a squad car would only worsen things if they were caught.

Frank watched the way Gerard’s pale lip was sucked into his mouth and his nicotine-coated, coffee-stained teeth pulled on the flesh. He watched Gerard’s eyes squint and hide away the amber of them that usually swirled like rum around his pupils. Frank thought he could get drunk off of Gerard’s gaze as every time he looked into them he saw a refreshing flavor that even he couldn’t name. Perhaps, it was the pain of Gerard’s ghosted past, perhaps it was fear, but it was intoxicating, just the same. 

Gerard’s silhouette enthralled Frank for the several minutes they sat stagnant on the highway. The streetlamps and red brake lights from cars above coated Gerard in a yellow-red glow that made him seem as if he were on fire. Every part of his skin looked to be burning, and Frank itched to strike his skin again the match of Gerard’s arm and watch himself ignite.

Suddenly, he shook his head and tried to remember what was happening. Lives were on the line. The case was ending. There wasn’t time to stare into Gerard’s alcoholic eyes or test to see if Frank’s skin burned against Gerard’s touch. These were just the facts.

Only thing was, Frank couldn’t help but think back to the hospital at Jack Barakat’s interview. He remembered reaching out to grab Gerard’s hand. It had been a simple gesture, a gesture of promise and new horizons and comfort. Gerard hadn’t squeezed his hand back or even given some semblance of recognition at Frank’s action. All in all, he had ignored that single thread of connection that had held them together.

Perhaps, there had never been a connection. The kisses between them had been scripted. The only sort of honesty Frank had received from Gerard seemed nothing more than business at best. His heart ached, and he didn’t know why. It was as though threads that had sewn up the hole Jamia had left had been plucked. His aorta was open and bleeding out into his veins, igniting his body in a way that wasn’t like Gerard’s fire that was nothing but an autumnal fire.

Frank was a harsh forest fire that ate and devoured. The flames igniting his veins were cannibalistic and feeding off the disappointment and angst that had filled Frank up on the highway. It was swallowing him whole, and he knew shouting out to Gerard would be useless. Gerard was recovering alone; Frank was merely a spectator.

Finally, realizing the car was not moving anywhere anytime soon, Gerard loosened his muscles and leaned back in his seat. He peered over at Frank. “We’re this close, and we’re still losing. I think God’s laughing at us.”

Frank was momentarily surprised. “You believe in God?”

Gerard sighed and shrugged, “I don’t know, Frank. I feel like there’s got to be someone watching out for us, up there.”

“You believe we’re all on a predetermined course of life, then?”

“I believe we all get the endings we deserve,” said Gerard quietly.

Frank was about to say something more. Perhaps, he was going to laugh at Gerard for putting faith in something so unrealistic or perhaps he was even going to be tempted to ask what Gerard thought his ending was, but a ringing from Gerard’s cell phone halted all of that.

“Chief?” Gerard answered questioningly.

The chief’s voice was so loud and booming and angry that Frank could hear him. “WHAT IS THIS I HEAR ABOUT YOU PICKING UP AN INNOCENT CIVILIAN FOR THIS CASE, WAY?”

“Ch-chief, he was--”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT HE DID. YOU KNOW THAT’S AGAINST PROTOCOL. THAT’S DANGEROUS, WAY-- THAT’S RECKLESS-- THAT’S AN INSULT TO YOUR PROFESSION.”

“Chief, we found the culprit. We know who it is!” Gerard tried to force himself to sound chipper, but Frank’s heart was pattering a different beat. “Shane Valdez. He lives over in Cooperstown.”

“WHATEVER INFORMATION YOU THINK YOU KNOW, YOU WILL TELL DETECTIVE TORO. HE IS OFFICIALLY LEAD ON THIS CASE!”

“But, Chief--”

“AND YOU, WAY, YOU ARE SUSPENDED. DO YOU HEAR ME? SUSPENDED? I WANT YOU BACK AT THE STATION TO DROP OFF YOUR GUN AND YOUR BADGE.”

“Chief, I can’t do that,” Gerard said firmly, “I have to save lives.”

“YOU CAN, AND YOU WILL, OR I WILL CHARGE YOU WITH HINDERING A POLICE INVESTIGATION.”

And the line went dead. Gerard’s quivering hand dropped the phone as traffic began to move, and he sucked his lip in even more.

“We’re still going to Cooperstown, right?” Frank asked.

“We can’t,” Gerard muttered as he managed over into the exit lane, back towards Monroeville.

“What do you mean? We can do this, Gerard!” Frank felt a different sort of burning sensation through his body.

“We can’t, Frank!” Gerard shouted, “You heard the chief. This investigation is over for me. I can’t lose my job… not for you.”

Silence filled the car. Even the burning embers that Frank had witnessed across Gerard’s body had seemed to sizzle out. The only thing burning was Frank’s insides, blood pumping furiously like venom through his body, gnawing at his heart and igniting it, filling it with an ache that was all too familiar.

#### Monday

 

 

II.

 

 

“I want to talk about what happened,” Patrick says, that morning at one a.m. when the canopy of stars outside the window had finally been hidden from view by gray clouds that had engulfed the nighttime sky and cast inky shadows upon the pavement outside. They were laying in his bed, he and Pete, listening to the silence of the apartment creaking and the appliances humming in the kitchen. Brendon had left with a note to Patrick promising he would be back from his ‘vacation’. Patrick thought it was funny because any promises that had ever been made to him were usually broken.

Pete was awake. He had been laying, silent and still, in bed for sometime, curled up in his own little warmth. Pete liked to be the little spoon, some nights. He said he liked the feeling of someone to hold him and breathe in his ear; it was almost like a promise that they would be there in the morning. Patrick didn’t mind. He liked holding Pete, too. He liked the feeling of finally being useful to someone. But Pete hadn’t been sleeping. Despite the medication, when Pete was worried he was plagued even more so with insomnia, and Patrick knew that.

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep, either, and thought it was useless for the two of them to lay in bed together in silence.

Sitting up against the headboard and wiggling out of Patrick’s grip, Pete said, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Patrick scooted up next to him, automatically fidgeting with his hands out of anxiety. “I mean, it will help, right?”

Pete nodded and reached over on the end table for Patrick’s glasses and slid the black frames over his lover’s face, smiling at him.

Patrick mumbled a thanks and tried to find the right words to tell Pete what had happened. It was difficult, he had never known anything to be this difficult. Even reconnecting with Pete and falling in love with him all over again had been easy. Those had been natural. Those had felt right. This, this did not feel right. How could anything about this feel right? Patrick had been raped and degraded. He had been hospitalized. He had been at his most vulnerable in front of Pete.

Those assholes had stolen his virginity. They had touched him in places that he had only ever imagined Pete touching him in, and now Patrick couldn’t even imagine that! They had made him feel ashamed and gross for his sexuality. 

Patrick told all this to Pete through thick tears that spilled from his face. He panted and choked and often he trailed off from sentences to wipe his running nose or his eyes. Pete remained silent the whole time to listen to Patrick’s misery. He wrapped arms around him and kissed the tears from his cheeks and let Patrick wipe his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. 

Eventually, Patrick finished telling Pete about the horrific experience and fell limp in his arms, sniffling occasionally. 

Pete stroked his hair and kissed his temple and finally whispered, “I am sorry, Trick.”

“W-why? You d-didn’t hurt me.”

“I should have been there for you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either,” Pete said, “You are beautiful and fucking lovely, Trick, never forget that. I love you, and I want to make you see that you are beautiful to me.”

“B-but I was raped!”

“What happened to you was horrible, Trick, okay?” Pete held him tighter. “But do you remember what you told me, back in Chicago, about my depression?”

Patrick nodded and whispered weakly, “Your tragedies don’t define who you are.”

“Exactly!” Pete pulled away enough to look into Patrick’s baby blues. “Look, I’m not going to say tomorrow is going to be better. But one day, things will get better. They did for me, Trick. My depression nearly killed me in Chicago. But you saved me. And I’ll save you as long as you want me to.”

“I want you, Pete,” Patrick whispered, “I want you to be my everything.”

Pete smiled and pecked his lips. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist, Tricky. I did, and it definitely helped. I’m better now.”

“You are. Y-you’re wonderful.”

Pete smiled and held Patrick and let him be the little spoon. Because sometimes it’s nice to feel someone protecting you and breathing in your ear like a little promise that they will be there when the morning comes.

 

 

III.

 

 

The basement was pitch black. Still, Kellin and Vic could not see each other despite their close proximity. There was no window in the basement, and neither of them could tell the time of day, though they were assuming it was very early in the morning as the noise from upstairs had diminished to nothing more than creaks. Vic had fought to stay awake the entire time, afraid that Obbo and his gang would swoop down and separate he and Kellin from each other again.

Vic had finally found Kellin, and he wasn’t going to lose him again.

It had taken much fumbling and squeezing, but Kellin had managed to help Vic break the cord around his wrist by biting it with his teeth and occasionally knocking heads with Vic in grappling blindness. But there wasn’t much more Vic could do as they had drugged him with some strange substance coursing through his system and slowly shutting down his motor skills. He twitched and shook often and his legs were like jelly. Vic could do nothing but sit beside Kellin, beneath the leaky pipes and listen to his rapid breathing.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Kellin said finally in a low tone. His voice sounded gravelly and tired, and Vic found it alluring despite the circumstances. He resisted the urge to find Kellin’s lips in the darkness. “Vic, what are they going to do to us?”

“You’re safe, Kel,” Vic murmured, leaning his head on Kellin’s shoulders and managing his arms around Kellin’s torso, holding on for dear life. “They’re flying you out somewhere. You’re a prize to them. Me and Jaime? They’re going to kill us.”

“No!” Kellin squeaked, “They can’t. They can’t take you away from me. I’ve never cared so much about anyone my entire life, Vic.”

“I know,” he whispered and head butted Kellin on the search for his lips. He eventually found them in the dark and savored the chapped, dry taste of his dehydrated lips. They were parched like a desert, cracked and chewed to the point that it was almost a crime. Vic had imagined this moment for weeks, this kiss. He had imagined Kellin’s rosy lips pressing against his in the bright autumn day, perhaps upon Kellin’s roof where they spent so much time in solitude. He had imagined the smoothness of them, flavored with raspberry iced tea or sweetened lemonade. He imagined the pleasure and the ecstasy that would flow through the both of them as they wrapped their arms around each other and refused to let go. He had imagined the blustering breeze, the chirping sonatas of birds, and the pressing of their bodies together.

Vic had never imagined this. He never imagined their pairs of dry lips desperately pressing against each other, their tongues poking into each other’s mouths only to feel the aridness inside. Vic didn’t imagine Kellin tasting like musty basement and stale water. He didn’t imagine Kellin unable to hold him back even as Vic gripped onto him tight. He most certainly didn’t imagine that he couldn’t see Kellin’s eyes light up at the affection or a smile on his face.

After they separated, Vic kept his forehead propped against Kellin’s, afraid to stray to far from him. He wanted to breathe in each of Kellin’s breaths and maybe hope that it would flush his system on the drugs as he would finally be overdosing on something wonderful.

“Wh-where am I?” Jaime’s voice grumbled out from the darkness and Vic jumped, injuring Kellin as their noses collided.

“Jaime! We’re over here!” Vic exclaimed, thankful that his friend was alright. “Kellin’s here. He’s okay, Jaime. H-he’s okay,” he repeated, mostly to assure himself.

“I can’t move my legs!” Jaime moaned. “I’m so dizzy!”

“Stay awake,” Kellin instructed, “we don’t know if they’re going to come down here and separate us.”

“I’d like to see them try,” growled Jaime threateningly, although the threat seemed useless as his gun had been taken when they were kidnapped.

Vic nearly squeezed the air out of Kellin and struggled to bury his head deep in his chest, breathing in a harsh stench of fading cologne, dirt, and body odor. He didn’t care, though; this was Kellin, and this was real. Kellin rested his chin on Vic’s head, and exhaled shakily.

“What if we die in here?” Kellin finally said the thing that had been haunting all of their minds.

But no one dared to answer his question. And Vic could do nothing more than bury his head deeper and deeper into Kellin’s shirt, trying to unearth his heartbeat. Trying to prove that they were alright.

 

 

IV.

 

 

Spencer was tired. He had been awake all night pounding at the door and screaming for Shane to return and tell him this was all a joke and that he and Ryan had just planned this measly scheme in order for shits and giggles. But the more Spencer knocked and screamed himself hoarse, the more he realized that this was real. Shane was the campus killer and he had kidnapped Ryan and Spencer. Spencer was going to die down here. He had already tried texting and calling Jon, but Shane had been smart of which room to use for his victims, for there was no service down there. Angrily, Spencer threw the phone against the wall and screamed with his raspy voice.

A muffled voice answered back, and Spencer remembered that Ryan was still tied up in the bed.

He rushed over to the captive boy and immediately yanked the gag from Ryan’s mouth.

“F-fuck!” Ryan hyperventilated. “Sp-spencer, what are you doing here?”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered darkly, half embarrassed that he had fallen in this trap and half ashamed at remembrances of steamy kisses between him in Shane, all in the name of envy.

“He’s a monster!” Ryan shrieked and tried to struggle from his bonds, but Spencer noticed that Shane was as crafty as he was cunning. The bonds holding Ryan were similar to a tourniquet, meaning that the more Ryan struggled, the more pain he would be in. Spencer held him still and stared at the knots. He would need to cut Ryan loose or risk the boy losing his limbs. “I’ve been down here for days. Oh my God, Spencer, are you here to save me?”

“No,” he said sadly and could see the look of disappointment flash across Ryan’s gaunt face. He looked terrible. His skin was a sickly alabaster and his cheeks had sunken in. Deep rings around Ryan’s eyes only highlighted his pallor, and even his frame was thinner than it had been.

“Does anyone know you’re here?!”

“Brendon,” Spencer muttered, omitting the fact that he was all the way in Salt Lake City.

A strange smile spread across Ryan’s features at his name. “Brendon will save us-- he’ll save me. Fuck, Spencer, this is… perfect. When Brendon comes, I’m going to tell him I love him. That I want him. Uncensored and unrestrained. No more secrets and sneaking around. No more shame and regret. I want Brendon Urie. I love him.”

“Ryan, I don’t know--”

“It’s perfect, Spencer!” Ryan sounded like a lunatic, but he had been captive for a few days. Starved and probably sleep deprived, Ryan was more than excused for losing his mind. “I’m going to love him the way I should’ve all along. We’ll kiss and make love and lay in bed for hours cuddling. I’ll even spend the night. I don’t care that I’m gay. I’m okay with that as long as I have Brendon.”

Spencer didn’t have the heart to cut Ryan’s lifeline, so he smiled sadly at the boy and sat at the foot of the bed.

“I mean it, Spencer,” Ryan blabbered on, “I want Brendon the way he is. It’s shitty that it took his long for me to come to terms with it, but I can’t live without him, Spencer. I tried. I really fucking tried. I tried to replace him and I tried to deny our relationship, but the only thing I ever thing of anymore when I try to sleep is the way he says my name or his body moves against mine or the way his breath whispered to me in his sleep. Spencer, when do you think Brendon will come?”

“Soon,” Spencer lied, “Soon.”

 

 

V.

 

 

Salt Lake City was beautiful like no other city Brendon had known. Perhaps it was the freedom and solitude that had followed him from Cooperstown, a sort of tranquility that settled in the valley of the mountains around. Dallon’s house was tucked away on a quaint country road beside a rippling lake where there was a private dock (Dallon had sold his boat after the divorce, apparently). It was a beautiful white gabled home with a jutting bay window that faced east towards the sunrise and a beautiful screen porch that faced the west.

Brendon woke up, feeling a bit groggy from traveling as he usually did, in Dallon’s arms. It was a strange way to wake up, not because Brendon was unfamiliar with Dallon’s tight grip around his waist, but because he was still not used to the house. They were tucked away in the master bedroom. It was a spacious room with a pair of French doors leading to a veranda where the sun trickled through the panes and painted the room in a thick, sticky yellow that nearly blinded Brendon. He wriggled out of Dallon’s arms and shook the other man awake, still enjoying the sight of new nooks and crannies all around him: the giant oak wardrobe, the stone fireplace, and the flat screen that hung above the mantel. Even the framed pictures on the walls amused Brendon as he stared at Dallon’s kids through the years and even an old picture of Dallon and Breezy at their wedding.

“Time s’it?” Dallon slurred into the pillow, and Brendon resisted the urge to giggle at his exhaustion.

“Breakfast time,” Brendon said, “I was hoping I’d be treated as an honorary guest here.”

Dallon chuckled, “Were you?”

“Unfortunately, though, I see no eggs or toast on my lap. Everyone knows eggs make me horny.”

Dallon fought the urge to laugh and played along, “Is that because they look like testicles?”

“No,” Brendon said, “I just have a bird fetish.”

Dallon laughed and tackled Brendon back down to the pillows where he covered him with sweet kisses across his face, pausing a hairsbreadth distance from his lips. He smiled. “I’m glad you came with me.”

“I am, too.”

Dallon kissed Brendon full on the lips this time, and Brendon relished the feeling of it. Every time Dallon kissed him, it felt like pure electricity flowing through his body as though a static connection had gone haywire inside Brendon’s head. He threaded his hands into Dallon’s shaggy brown hair and gave it a tug, soliciting a breathy murmur from Dallon that sounded vaguely like, ‘fuck, Brendon’.

At that moment, however, two pairs of high-pitched whines came from down the hallway that definitely sounded like, “Daddy!”

Amelie and Knox were awake. 

Dallon pecked Brendon’s lips one last time before padding down the hallway to attend to his children.

Brendon could do nothing but lay back on the bed and stare out the doors to the veranda where the sun was painting it in all its burning glory. Something about Salt Lake City felt perfect, and Brendon couldn’t place it. Maybe it was the fact that he was with Dallon, and Dallon seemed to always make things better. He had made Brendon feel better after that break-up. It was if Dallon was medication-- or stitches-- for his broken heart. Dallon had seamed up his heart and trapped himself inside it, and Brendon didn’t want to release him anytime soon.

Dallon was wonderful. Not only did he look good in a suit (as Brendon could tell from the wedding photo), but he was stable in ways that Ryan never were. Dallon knew what he wanted in life, and he wasn’t afraid to go after things. He was stable and secure, and Brendon trusted Dallon with his heart. He couldn’t explain how the boy from Utah had affected him in such a way, but Brendon didn’t care.

He could hardly think of Ryan when he was staying in a home with a white picket fence- the only thing he had ever truly dreamt of.

 

 

VI.

 

 

_Slam!_

The door was nearly yanked from its hinges in the threshold, causing a disruption of activities inside the small apartment.

“Frank, I swear if you break the door again, I’m moving out.”

Frank didn’t even dignify Bob with an answer as he stormed into the apartment, threw his shit all over the counter, and collapsed onto the couch. Bob stared at him, speechless, for a moment as though it had been months (rather than days) since he had last seen Frank.

“You look… different,” said Bob awkwardly, trying to alleviate the thick tension that Frank had brought rolling into the apartment.

Moodily, Frank stared at the television, ignoring Bob. Something inside him had snapped. Perhaps it was the thought that he and Gerard didn’t even receive the ending for the case the two of them had dreamed of. Perhaps it was because Frank had been all but thrown out of Gerard’s life by a simple phone call.

Phone calls seemed to ruin Frank’s life; he wanted to throw his into the Pacific.

“Here.” Bob handed Frank a cold beer from the refrigerator as a peace offering, and Frank accepted it with a resigned sigh.

“I thought you were undercover.”

“I was.”

“I thought you were working on a case, Scully.”

“Mulder gave up.”

Bob frowned and stared at his friend. Frank looked different- not drastically different- he just looked as if he had changed. He looked more grown-up. He looked less and less like the alcoholic freshmen Bob had met and more like an adult who had seen tragedies and had accepted them. “Are you okay?”

Frank shrugged and downed the bitter watery taste of the beer Bob had given him. “Same shit, different toilet, Bob.”

“What do you mean?”

“Happened with Jamia. Happened today. It’ll happen tomorrow.”

“Frank, I don’t--”

“Sometimes I wish you were easy to love, Bobby,” Frank rambled on, almost blissfully ignorant of the fact that Bob had no idea what he was talking about. He seemed to have left his mind back on the highway punching 115 mph. “You would be perfect to love. I mean, I wish you loved me, Bob. You’re a simple man. You’re not complicated. All you need is a beer and a puppy, and you’re set to go. You don’t need riddles or long anecdotes or mysteries. You know who you are. I like that.”

“Frank, you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m talking about me, Bob!” Frank exclaimed with a deranged look in his eyes. “It’s me; it’s got to be me. I try to love, Bob. I try really hard. I loved Jamia. Fucking loved her. And she shit on me. Th-then….”

Bob raised a thick brow. “Then?”

Frank’s hands shook, and his anxiety increased rapidly. The beer sloshed from the bottle and onto the carpet, coating his hand. His legs shook, and he screwed his face up, sniffling and trying hard to stop the tears from falling. “I fell in love, Bob. I’m so stupid. I fell in love again.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this case was so fucking frustrating!” Frank screamed, startling Bob. “Because we know who it is, and all because of me, we can’t carry out justice! Because he is such a fucking dick. I hate this case!”

Frank knew he wasn’t making any sense, and he could tell Bob thought the same. But Frank couldn’t even string together a proper train of thought anymore when all that was flitting through his mind was a countdown of how long it would take Detective Toro to get a search warrant for the Valdez Manor, how long it would take Gerard to pick up another drink again, how long it would take himself to love again and find himself in the same broken ditch.

“Frank, I don’t think you’re as frustrated about this case as you are about someone else,” Bob said calmly, gingerly taking the sticky beer bottle from Frank’s equally sticky hand and placing it on the coffee table. He patted Frank’s hair and left the room.

Frank tried to calm himself down, tried not to think about the case or Gerard or anything between them, but it was hard. All he could think about were those scripted kisses between them or the unscripted way Frank had held his hand in the hospital. He remembered Gerard squeezing his hand in return and smiling down at his notes.

And even though Frank was still trying to justify falling in love, he couldn’t help but imagine a bullet crashing through his heart and imploding the pieces throughout his entire body. And even though he was surviving through all of this pain, Frank couldn’t stop thinking about Gerard Way.

 

 

VII.

 

 

A damp chill whisked around the hospital room. The window was open, allowing the chilled October breeze to cool them. Alex and Jack were alone, for what felt like the first time. Finally, they were together without detectives or nurses or doctors or even friends who all came to see Jack with tears in their eyes. Alex hadn’t left the room once during these visits, except to shower and fix himself up after he had felt gross and ashamed that Jack had to see him like this.

But now was the first time the two of them could talk since Jack had seen Alex standing on the windowsill, ready to jump into the abyss.

It should’ve felt awkward and uncomfortable; but this was Jack and nothing was awkward with him. He sat up on the bed and stared at Alex before reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Are you okay?”

Alex shrugged. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

“You just got out of a coma!”

“And you almost jumped out of a window!” Jack exclaimed, “Alex, I’m worried about you. What’s wrong?”

It was such a simple question, but Alex could hardly think of a simple answer. Every answer he thought of was just another intricate strand of his mind that webbed into another explanation and another question and another explanation- a never ceasing dialogue.

“You,” he finally answered.

Jack frowned, taken aback.

“You drive me crazy, Jack,” Alex whispered, not even daring to look his best friend in the eyes, “And not just since you were in a coma. You’ve been driving me crazy for a while now. I can’t stop thinking about you, a-and I don’t want to. And--”

“Alex, shut up!” Jack laughed before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Alex’s.

It wasn’t what Alex had imagined, either. He had imagined long heart-filled confessions to each other about being in love for quite some time. He had imagined finally embracing and finding each other’s lips amidst the smiles and tears. But this was different. This was easier. This was Jack, and this was Alex. They didn’t need teary expositions that would climax into true love’s kiss. All they needed was each other.

Jack kissed Alex like Alex had never been kissed before. It was more refreshing than the outdoor breeze. Jack tasted like water and mints, and Alex could taste a hint of mouthwash and toothpaste on his own breath, mingling with Jack’s. It was the easiest thing he had ever done, kissing Jack, and he was mad that it had taken him this long to figure that out.

“I love you, too,” Jack giggled when they broke apart, “You’re welcome I saved you from looking like a desperate, horny girl.”

“You wish I were a horny girl,” laughed Alex.

“I do. You’d probably have the best tits.”

Alex snorted.

“Big bouncing jubblies!” Jack shouted, and Alex swore he saw a nurse double-take outside their room. “The tastiest of tits!”

“I have something else that’s tastier,” Alex muttered, and Jack howled with laughter. Alex’s heart swelled with pride at the fact that only he could ever make Jack laugh until tears were coming out of his eyes and he was gripping a stitch in his stomach, trying to breathe.

“I think the only way that I’m tasting your dick is if you buy me dinner first.”

Alex was about to joke that there was a vending machine right outside the room when he was suddenly interrupted by Jack again.

“Are my parents here?”

“I-I don’t think. You told the doctors not to call them about waking up. Th-they probably won’t be back until Wednesday.”

“Why?”

Alex felt a lump in his throat. He grabbed Jack’s hand and held on tighter as though he’d never held onto anything else in his life. “They were going to pull the plug, Jack.”

“What?!”

“They were giving you until Wednesday to wake up. They couldn’t afford to keep you hooked up to the machines any longer.”

Jack looked like he wanted to cry. He looked like he wanted to jump out the window, but he stayed in bed and allowed Alex to scoot up beside him and curl himself around Jack’s body. Jack buried his face in Alex’s neck and breathed in the thick scent of hospital soap. His breath shook.

“But you’re awake now,” whispered Alex, “You’re awake, and you’re okay, Jacky.”

“I heard you.”

“What?”

“Wh-when I was in a coma, I heard everything you said to me. I thought it was just a dream, but the doctor said that coma patients can often hear loved ones talking to them. I heard you, Lex. Everything you said to me.”

“That’s why you didn’t need me to tell it to you earlier?”

Jack nodded and held on tight to Alex for no particular reason.

 

 

VIII.

 

 

He was there, right in front of him.

His face was masked in the shadows, but a glinting collection of teeth twisted into a smirk in front of his eyes. His hands were rough and calloused, gripping a knife that held the reflection of the moon in it. There was blood everywhere, and Gabe wasn’t sure where it was from. He could feel it pooling around his knees and soaking his jeans as his fingers fumbled with the man’s zipper. The man gripped Gabe’s hair tight and jerked his head closer and closer to his arching hips.

Gabe swallowed a strangled cry of pain.

But when the man placed the edge of his knife against the nape of Gabe’s neck and pressed down lightly, Gabe cried out in pain.

He woke up soaked in sweat and hyperventilating. His pulse was racing his heartbeats, and Gabe was shaking with anxiety. He looked over at William who had not been awoken by his piercing screams. He slept on soundly, looking like an angel, and Gabe allowed one of his shaking hands to card their way through Bill’s hair, the familiarity of it calming him down. He was here, with Bill, not with the sex-crazed maniac.

Fumbling out of bed, Gabe made his way to the kitchen. He was still spending nights at Abbotts Close with Bill in order to fill the void that Ryan had left for his boyfriend. It was definitely smaller than what he was used to, and Gabe definitely felt more required to keep Bill’s place looking clean than he did his own. Regardless, Gabe made his way to the refrigerator in search for the pitcher of water.

However, his eyes stumbled upon something else. It was a half-full case of beer sitting in Bill’s fridge. And the more Gabe stared at it, the less appealing a pitcher of water seemed.

He hadn’t drunk once since the incident. He hadn’t even looked at alcohol with any sorts of desire; but the residues of the nightmare in his head had him staring at the beer as though it were a lifeline.

Gabe knew that once he started drinking, he wouldn’t be able to stop again. He was lucky this ‘cold turkey’ had worked in the first place. But Gabe was a progressing alcoholic; everyone had seen the signs. It was more than partying: it was a way to cope with life at its most miserable. 

Gabe was an alcoholic. And now, he was staring at temptation.

He reached for one of the beers and brought it over to the counter, opening it with a hiss of the can.

Bill was sleeping in the next room. He wouldn’t know…. Or at least, he wouldn’t know until he found Gabe passed out in the bathroom- either near the toilet or in the shower with the water running on top of him or passed out in a pool of his own vomit. Gabe didn’t necessarily drink to get drunk; he just couldn’t stop once he started.

He remembered countless hungover mornings of waking up in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar faces, naked, next to him. He remembered waking up with his own puke and piss covering him. He remembered waking up without a single memory of what had happened or how he had lost all of his clothes. Gabe remembered those nights with a sick sort of regret. He remembered those nights and mornings when he had no one to care about him or care for him.

There was no one to give him painkillers in the morning or clean up the apartment for him. There was no one to pat his back when he threw up or whisper that things were alright when he started crying drunk crocodile tears.

But now there was. Now Gabe had Bill, who was sleeping in the bed where Gabe should be. Gabe could only imagine the look of disappointment the next morning as Bill had to help Gabe back to bed and clean up after his mess. He could imagine the shame and disgust. 

Shaking the urges out of his head, Gabe poured the open can down the drain and set it on the counter. In the morning, he would tell Bill how he fought the urges. He would tell Bill about the nightmares, and they would fix it together.

So Gabe climbed back into bed and pulled William close to him, kissing his forehead with booze-free breath.

 

 

IX.

 

 

It was hours since Spencer had been locked in the basement before Shane finally entered the room. There was a gun in his hand and a pair of handcuffs, so there was little Spencer could do when he handcuffed him to a giant wardrobe that probably was filled with some sick shit. Spencer tried to ignore the trembling in his legs and tried to look stronger than he was as Shane cuffed him into place.

“P-p-please, Shane, I won’t tell anyone. I w-won’t!”

Shane cackled with glee. “Of course you won’t, Spencer. After all, isn’t it true what they say, dead men tell no tales?”

Spencer whimpered. “P-please, Shane. J-jon will come. Jon knows I’m here.”

“Spencer, your relationship with Jon has been dismal at best. You didn’t tell him you were coming here, and he won’t come looking for you. He doesn’t care about you, Spencer, he doesn’t love you.”

Tears swam in Spencer’s vision, but he refused to let them fall in front of Shane. He stared down at his feet and prayed that his legs wouldn’t give out on him. He didn’t want to show weakness anymore. Spencer was so used to running away from problems or having someone else solve them for him, but he was sick of that. He was going to make it out of here, alive, and with Ryan.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to see this, Spencer,” Shane continued, “I normally keep the rituals private, but you really should’ve paid attention to which door to go through. To think, I could be taking pictures of this masterpiece.” He ran a finger down Spencer’s jaw line and smirked when Spencer jumped.

Then he left the room and came back only minutes later with a knife. It was small, and Spencer swore he could see it stained with blood.

“Someone has to appease the gods,” Shane explained to Spencer, who was watching fearfully as he re-gagged Ryan. “I’d been looking and looking for a while now. All those others, they were nothing more than an opening act. But, tonight, I will give them my greatest work of all.”

Then, he began chanting in a strange language as he ripped the clothes from Ryan’s body.

 

X.

 

 

The evening air in Salt Lake City whipped pass Dallon and carried with it the moisture of the lake besides his house. He was standing on the porch outside his house, watching his children play on the swing set. They had cried several times over the course of the day about their mother, and even Dallon had sobbed into Brendon’s shoulder about Breezy’s death, but they were dealing. They were coping, and they were healing.

He heard the door behind him slide open and heard Brendon sidle onto the porch, wrapping his arms around Dallon from behind and leaning into him.

“How are you holding up?”

“Better than my kids, I think,” Dallon lamented, watching as Amelie and Knox seemed to have lost the spring in their step.

“They’ll be okay. They have their dad.”

“I don’t know if I can do this alone,” choked Dallon, “I’m used to burying others’ loved ones, b-but not my own.”

“You won’t have to do it alone,” Brendon whispered, “I’ll be here.”

Dallon smiled sadly. “You have to go back, Brendon. You have to finish school. I won’t let you give up your future for me.”

“I’m not giving anything up!” Brendon snapped fiercely that it made Dallon jump. “I’m sick of people telling me what to do. I always abided by what Ryan wanted to do and what Ryan thought I should do, and that chapter of my life is over, Dallon. I care about you so fucking much, okay? You healed me and helped me and cared for me like no one else has. That chapter of my life is over, and a new one has begun. All I want is you.”

Dallon smiled and turned around in Brendon’s grip, towering over the younger man and leaning down to kiss his lips. “We have to be careful around my kids.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to spring the fact that daddy has a boyfriend right after mommy died.”

Brendon nodded and smiled against Dallon’s lips. “So… daddy has a boyfriend?”

“What did you think you were, Brendon, a booty call?”

“I’m one hell of a booty call,” Brendon said, “I come all the way out to Utah for my calls.”

Dallon chuckled and ran his hands down Brendon’s sides, resting on his hips. “You’re beautiful, Brendon, you know that?”

Brendon blushed. “You’re handsome, Dallon, you know that?”

Dallon laughed again and kissed Brendon in the screen porch. Around them, the lake water lapped at the shore and rocked in a way the Pacific Ocean never seemed to. Amelie and Knox’s screams and laughs echoed around the valley where the house was tucked. And even the cicadas that chirped in the niche seemed to be singing a redeeming tune.

Despite all the travesties, Dallon knew he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world. Even all of his yesterdays.

 

 

XI.

 

 

It had to be night, Vic was sure of it. There were footsteps above their heads again, and they had all reduced their voices to fearful whispers at what fates awaited them. 

Kellin and Vic were still curled beneath the pipe that Kellin was chained to. They were doing everything to keep each other awake and convince themselves that this was not the last time they would be seeing each other.

But then, without warning, the entire upstairs of the house on Rollins Street was filled with gunfire. There were screams and shouts and dogs barking and the sounds of bodies hitting the floor.

Kellin found Vic’s hand in the darkness and held on at the end of the world.


	17. From Alyssum to Zinnia

I.

 

 

The gunshots were ceaseless. They careened about upstairs, shattering glass and blowing holes in the walls. Shouts sounded and angry dogs barked, and Kellin and Vic huddled under the pipe, gripping each other tight, and wondering what was happening. Jaime muttered something about the meth, worrying all of them that the gunshots could potentially explode the meth lab upstairs. Then, it dawned on Vic that they could be in the middle of some terrifying drug war. The cartels were slowly making their way up into the states from Mexico, and it was only with scum like Obbo that they would find themselves attaching too. He was notorious for ripping people off, and from the sounds of it, this batch of meth was vital to Obbo’s continuing business and survival. Vic held onto Kellin so tight he was afraid he would break his hand, but he didn’t want to let go and face reality quite yet.

Only once did the doorknob to the basement rattle throughout the catastrophe. The gunfire was already deafening to their ears from below, and Vic couldn’t even imagine what it would sound like if the door was open. He feared the dogs overhead would come down here and rip their flesh to pieces; he had seen the movies.

“I-if we die….” Kellin stuttered but was unable to finish his sentence his lips collided with Vic’s desperately in a simple enough way that finished his sentence.

Vic had never been kissed the way Kellin kissed him. It was desperate and sloppy (more so than their previous kisses), and it felt as if Kellin was pouring every passion he had inside of Vic’s body. He swallowed every sigh and groan and panicked pant that Kellin had to offer him. Every raggedy and hitched breath. He swallowed every inch of him as though this was enough for the two of them. As though the chaos in the house was stagnated by their two worlds crashing into each other. 

They were both shaking, Vic could feel that much. The ground felt more cold and damp than Vic had originally thought. He didn’t break the kiss, though, because Kellin was the only thing allowing Vic to feel. The drug coursing through his system was making things fuzzy and far away, but Kellin was close to home. He made things feel clear and vivid for Vic as though he had a front row seat to the theater rather than a cheap balcony scene. Kellin opened Vic’s senses for him.

Gunfire engulfed his senses. It rang in his ears, and the impact of the ammunition shook the house along with the stomping of feet overhead. Vic held onto Kellin and continued kissing him. Even in the darkness, he closed his eyes, desperate to remember every second of this. If they were going to die, then Vic wanted to die in a way that justified Romeo and Juliet.

He heard the basement door collapse as it was kicked off its hinges. He squeezed his eyes tighter and bit down on Kellin’s bottom lips, tasting blood immediately as it poured into his mouth. Vic choked, but he didn’t pull apart from Kellin. Instead, he bit down again when he heard a parade of feet running down the steps towards them. Kellin’s blood was dribbling down his chin, and Vic realized how much you had to love someone to wear their blood.

From a lifetime ago, Vic could remember blood on his wrists and how he could watch for hours as it pooled around the wounds and streaked down his skin in crooked crimson lines he shamefully hid. He also remembered Kellin’s perfect nonbleeding lips kissing those cuts and scars on his skin and whispering sweet nothings against the pain. Vic whimpered and swallowed Kellin’s blood, wishing he could do more to save the two of them.

Behind closed lids, Vic could see the lights of the basement turning on, but he was afraid to break away from Kellin and face Obbo or a rival drug gang. If they were going to shoot him, Vic wished they would do it now, when he was the closest to heaven.

“Vic,” Kellin mumbled against his lips, “look.”

Shaking and sweating and covered in blood that wasn’t his, Vic reluctantly broke apart from Kellin and looked around. Surrounding the basement were a small group of cops who were searching the nooks and crannies of the basement. A woman was already helping Jaime to his feet and calling in on her radio for medical assistance.

“Are there anymore of you?” one gruff officer asked Vic.

He shook his head, speechless.

“Come on, you’re okay,” the woman who had helped Jaime to her feet said to Vic.

All he could do was shake his head and hold onto Kellin, almost afraid to believe this was true. 

“We’re going to get you help,” she continued, “I’m going to help you. And we’re going to help your friend, but you need to let go of him so we can do that.”

Vic didn’t want to leave Kellin, but he whispered to him, “Go with her, Vic. I’ll be okay,” and he kissed Vic’s cheek.

Still dazed and convinced this was a dream, Vic allowed the woman to help him to his feet and escort him into the harsh October rain of Cooperstown. He could feel Kellin’s blood dripping off face with each torrent of the rain pellets against his skin. The woman talked to him, but he could hear nothing but the sirens screaming in the night and gasps from onlookers around the neighborhood.

Eventually, the woman gave him to the EMTs who loaded him onto the ambulance.

Finally, Vic got his voice back and croaked, “H-how did you find us?”

“How do you think?” a voice Vic thought he’d never hear again asked.

“M-mike!” Vic exclaimed, seeing his brother seated next to one of the EMTs in the ambulance. He made a move to leap on his brother and hug him, but nausea and dizziness stopped him as the EMT settled him onto the stretcher and strapped him in for the ride. “How did you know I was here?”

“I knew you were blaming Obbo for taking Kellin,” Mike explained, “Eventually, when I didn’t hear from you for a while, I assumed you had confronted Obbo… and things had ended… well, badly.”

“Th-then why didn’t you stop me from confronting him?”

Mike raised an obvious brow at Vic. “Would you have ever forgiven me if I had?”

Vic smiled. The last thing he saw before he finally lost consciousness was the policewoman escorting Kellin from the building.

 

 

II.

 

 

The torture Shane was invoking upon Ryan felt like it had been lasting hours. He was a sadist, that was for sure, as he made the strokes with his knife gentle and slow as though he were relishing the sight of Ryan’s torso bleeding. Ryan’s muffled screams ricocheted across the room, and Spencer felt sick by the sight. He screamed and begged Shane to stop, but Shane didn’t listen to him. Shane had his own agenda.

Finally, though, Shane did stop. However, it wasn’t Spencer’s pleas or Ryan’s pained screams that stopped him. In fact, it was an almost inaudible noise that made Shane stop. It was the doorbell upstairs.

Spencer was dazed, and Ryan seemed relieved despite his pained body twitching helplessly on the bed, and every move only made his constraints bind him down harder.

Spencer twitched, too, itching to save Ryan, but he could do nothing but uselessly watch and wait for Shane to kill him, too. 

It was strange to think that something as mundane as someone ringing the doorbell for Shane could be happening now. It was almost laughable that Shane was continuing his regular activities even after plunging a knife in someone’s flesh. Spencer wanted to laugh and cry at the thought of Shane having ordered a pizza or lured someone else here to teach them drums to make their not boyfriend jealous.

“Ryan, it’s okay,” Spencer said, “It’s okay.”

Ryan whimpered in return.

Straining his ears, Spencer heard overhead a voice that made him nearly lose his balance and topple on the floor. He jerked away and tried to fight against the handcuffs that restrained him in place. It was the voice of hope and of everything Spencer had been thinking about since he first stepped foot in Shane’s manor, what felt like days and days ago.

“I’m looking for Spencer.” Jon Walker’s voice had a way of filling the spaces and corners in a house, even without meaning to. “He hasn’t been home in a while. I’m worried about him. Have you seen him?”

“JON!” Spencer screamed desperately, thrashing around. “JON, I’M HERE. OH GOD, JON, I’M SO SORRY. HELP US!”

“No,” Shane replied silkily, “He left my house Sunday morning. I haven’t seen him since.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for him,” Jon explained.

“PLEASE, JON! WE’RE DOWN HERE! IT’S SHANE! SHANE’S THE MURDERER! PLEASE!”

Shane continued on smoothly, “It’s midnight, Jon. What would Spencer be doing at my house at midnight?”

“Well,” Jon stammered, “I thought he liked you.”

Shane chuckled, “Goodnight, Jon.”

And even with Spencer screaming his name, Jon left. Jon hadn’t heard him, and Jon wasn’t coming to save them. Spencer had never envisioned Jon as a white knight coming to rescue him, but he had never been more disappointed that Jon was not this.

Shane returned to the basement with a malicious look on his face. And as he plunged the knife deep into Ryan’s abdomen, he stared pointedly at Spencer.

#### Tuesday

 

 

III.

 

 

Tuesday morning broke around Cooperstown in a swirl of dull oranges and pale pinks that tickled the horizon with a glow that hung off the dreary clouds. Last night’s rain had subsided into nothing more than damp newspapers scattering the pavements, even damper cigarette butts buried in the autumnal leaves that banked against the edges of the sidewalk, and muddy puddles across dewy lawns. Abbotts Close looked as dreary as ever, the street of low-income student housing standing like a ghost in the shadow of the rising sun.

Gabe pulled the blinds down inside William’s bedroom; and for once, it wasn’t due to a migraine or hangover headache. Blinking sleepily and squinting through the small room, Gabe simply wanted to go back to sleep. He wasn’t sure what had awoken him. Shaking his head and trying to remember what kind of dream he had been having, Gabe laid back down only to realize that William was not asleep beside him.

“Bill?” he called into the apartment.

“Yeah?” William’s voice sounded from the kitchen, and Gabe struggled out of bed. Memories of last night flooded into his head, and he was glad he caught Bill before his boyfriend went off to class. He had to talk to him.

“I need to talk to you,” mumbled Gabe as he groggily made it over to the couch William was eating breakfast on and dropped his head onto his shoulder, nearly catapulting the toast out of William’s hand. “B-before you go to class. I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” William blinked, unsure of how to handle a sleepy and cranky Gabe. He patted his hair with his toast-free hand. “Talk.”

“L-last night, I… did something bad.”

William frowned.

“Actually,” Gabe corrected, “I almost did something bad. I-I stopped myself.” When William didn’t show any signs of interrupting, Gabe went on, “I almost drank again.”

This time, William really did drop his toast. “Gabe, why?!”

“I had a nightmare, Bill,” explained Gabe, “I had a nightmare about that bastard touching me and hurting me, a-and in my dreams, you’re not there to save me, Bill.”

William sighed, ignoring the fallen toast, and embracing Gabe tightly, kissing the top of his head. “I know I’m not. I wish I could be. W-why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you have class in the morning,” Gabe mumbled into William’s shirt. He liked the way William smelled in the mornings. He smelled like soap and toast and coffee.

William stroked Gabe’s hair. “I know that, but I could miss class for you, Gabe. You know I would.”

“But I don’t want you to!” Gabe whined, “You worked hard to get your scholarship to be here. I don’t want to be the one who brings you down.”

“Don’t think of it that way,” he gently scolded Gabe, “Relationships are a two-person effort.”

“So… you’re not going to leave me?”

“Why would I leave you?”

Gabe shrugged. He had become pretty dependent over the course of the weeks. It wasn’t a pathetic sort of attachment, though. After all, he was still independent and could do things for himself. He was just secure in knowing that William would be by his side, and he was scared to let that go. “I love you, Guillermo.”

“I love you, too, Gabe.” William smiled and kissed Gabe’s forehead. “I’ve got to go to class, now. Are you going to be okay.”

“Yeah,” Gabe said and knew that he meant it.

“You should go to class, too, this afternoon,” William said as he flung his school bag over his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve gone in a while.”

“Oh….” Gabe paused. “I’m dropping out, William.”

And like the toast, William’s bag fell to the ground. “What?!”

“It’s not for me, Bill. I don’t want to get a degree, so I can take over my father’s business. I don’t want to sit at a desk for the rest of my life, giving other people orders, and living without really working for it.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Honestly?” Gabe explained, “It was you. I’ve seen how hard you work to keep that scholarship and make the Dean’s List and… fuck… William, I want to be a boyfriend you’ll be proud of. I don’t want to be some lazy motherfucker who snaps his fingers and gets a million bucks. I don’t want that life, while you’re struggling to make your own ends meet.”

“Gabe, don’t drop out of college for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me. I’m not going to become a better person receiving hand-outs my entire life. I don’t care if I have to be dirt poor in order to find what makes me happy. I am not going to live a meaningless life anymore.”

William smiled, retrieved his bag, and crossed the room to kiss Gabe hard on the lips. He smiled in the middle of the kiss. “I am proud of you, Gabe. I love you.”

“Te amo, Guillermo,” purred Gabe as he kissed William one last time and playfully slapped his ass as he exited the room.

Then, Gabe set to work cleaning up Bill’s fallen toast.

 

 

IV.

 

 

It was eleven o’clock in the morning, but still, it was the only time fit for a party. Because of morning classes and scheduling conflicts, they were forced to throw Jack’s ‘welcome home’ party before noon because Mrs. Gaskarth would not stand for kids skipping classes to party at her house. Alex thought that the party was going very well; it wasn’t a big party, either, just a few of Jack’s closest friends and their dates who were coming to give Jack their condolences and well wishes over his incident. Jack had asked Alex not to invite his parents because what could he really say to the people who had lost faith in him and had planned to pull the plug on him had he not woken up by tomorrow.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Jack!” Alex’s mother pulled her surrogate son into a hug and kissed his head. He hugged her back and smiled.

When she walked away to attend to a party dip she was in the process of making, Alex came up behind Jack and wrapped his arms around him, laying his head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, too.”

“I wouldn’t be back if it weren’t for you, Lex,” Jack admitted, “I kept hearing your voice, and I was so desperate to reach it.”

“My mom still doesn’t know we’re in love.”

Jack laughed, “Oh, yes, she does.”

“What?”

“Dude, your mom’s been asking me about wedding plans for, like, a year now.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” Jack exclaimed, “I’ve already picked out our suit colors, and I found some awesome honeymoon locations in these catalogues she lent me.”

“She lent you catalogues?!”

“Yeah,” Jack snickered, “your mom also lent me some other kind of mags.” He winked and nudged Alex, who couldn’t help but laugh as he found out he didn’t care if his mother had lent Jack wedding catalogues.

It was about an hour into the party, and guests had come and gone, filtering in and out between their classes. Finally, Rian and Cassadee joined the party. The two were smiling and giggling and holding each other’s hand and practically tripping over each other.

“She finally let you get a homerun, Dawson?” Jack catcalled at the two of them.

“No, you asshole!” Rian laughed.

“She finally let you take an alternative route?” This time, Jack wiggled his eyebrows, and both Rian and Cassadee wrinkled their noses in disgust.

“What are you two so giddy about, then?” Alex asked.

Rian looked at Cassadee expectantly who nodded, biting her lip to conceal the squeals that were threatening to escape it. Finally, Rian shouted over the music and conversation in the room, “We’re getting married!”

The girls in the room squealed along with Cassadee, and the men catcalled. Alex’s mother promptly burst into tears and pulled Rian and Cassadee into a long hug that they struggled out of.

Eventually, the room calmed down enough for Rian to tell Alex and Jack, “I want one of you to be my best man.”

“Alex can be!” Jack volunteered. Alex raised a brow at him, and Jack explained, “If you’re the best man at the wedding, then I get to be the godfather for their first born.”

“Why do you want to be a godfather?”

“Because, someone’s gotta teach all the Rian Jrs in the world how to get laid.” Jack snickered over Rian’s glare. “And how to dress. Socks with sandals, Rian?”

Rian playfully punched Jack’s shoulder and walked over to Cassadee who was showing the engagement ring off to some of the girls in the room who cooed and giggled over it. Their boyfriends shifted uncomfortably, almost afraid that they would be expected to propose now, too.

“Rian can be the best man at our wedding,” Jack hummed as he leaned against Alex.

“Our wedding?”

“Don’t break your mother’s heart,” Jack said, “She spent so much time sneaking those catalogues to me.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“Fine. Don’t,” Jack said with a taunting voice, “but you’d look ravishing in a tux, Mr. Gaskarth.” He paused. “And don’t forget, hiding the ring in food is tacky, Alex. You know I barely chew my food to begin with.”

Jack then sauntered away to do some exaggerated impersonations of Cassadee squealing over her engagement ring that made everyone laugh. Alex couldn’t help but laugh too because it was wonderful to have Jack back in his life.

And maybe, just maybe, down the road, Alex could see he and Jack wearing wedding bands across the ring fingers because, to Alex, Jack was the only person he wanted to fall asleep next to at night.

 

 

V.

 

 

With Starbucks in hand, Patrick let himself into his and Brendon’s (albeit absent) house where Pete was waiting for him. Patrick loved when Pete waited for him to come home. It was almost like a dog because Pete always jumped up and showered Patrick in kisses and hugs when he came home (sometimes playful licks on the cheek, too). He interrogated Patrick about his day and his mood until the two of them allowed the sound of cartoons on the television to take over the conversation before them. Patrick would fall asleep with Pete rubbing his back, and he would nap, curled up against Pete on the couch.

“How was your day?” Pete asked as Patrick handed him the coffee he had bought for him- not that Pete exactly needed coffee. It was just the thought that counted, Patrick thought.

“A reality check,” admitted Patrick.

“Why?”

“Feels like I haven’t been to class in forever.”

“You talked to your professor about your absence, right?”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah, he understands, thankfully. But that doesn’t excuse me from this upcoming project I’ve got to do.”

“Which is…?”

“I have to put together raw footage of a musical piece with at least four different instruments.”

Pete frowned. “Can’t you just play them all?”

Patrick shook his head. “Has to be live.”

“Why don’t you record a band?!”

“Because I don’t have a band,” Patrick explained with a sigh. 

“I’m sure you could find three other people to help you out. Hell, I’ll learn an instrument for you, Trick.”

“What could I play, though?”

“Sing.”

“What?!”

“I’ve heard you sing before,” Pete told him.

“Yeah!” Patrick spluttered. “In the shower. I-I’m not a singer.”

“And I’m not a musician, but I would be for you.”

Patrick sighed and leaned back against the fluffy cushions of the couch, allowing them to eat him. He couldn’t think of a single way this could work out well. His voice was horrible; the acoustics in the shower simply fooled Pete into making Patrick seem better than he was. 

“My therapist always told me that music was helpful,” Pete explained, “I imagine that performing it would be twice as beneficial.”

Patrick lolled his head onto Pete’s shoulder and whined, “What would I even sing?”

“Sing one of my poems,” Pete said, “I’ll gladly lend you a poem, Trick. You’re the only one I trust to do my words justice.”

And just like that, Pete ran from the room to bring Patrick one of his poems that he had written about him. It truly meant a lot to Patrick that Pete trusted him enough to share his words with him. In Chicago, Pete had been secretive and embarrassed of the thoughts that spewed from his head. It meant more than anything to Patrick that Pete was comfortable enough to share with him a piece of his mind. 

This was love, was all Patrick could remind himself with a fond smile.

“Here!” Pete returned to the couch and handed Patrick what looked like a very old napkin with words scattered across it in ink. Almost immediately, nerves found their way through to Pete’s head and he stuttered out, “I-it’s still a rough draft.”

_My heart is like a stallion._

_They love it more when it’s broken._

_Do you wanna feel beautiful?_

_I’m outside the door, invite me in._

_So we can go back and play pretend._

“It’s about you,” Pete explained nervously, “All of my words are about you.”

“You’re beautiful, Pete,” Patrick said with a wide smile and pulled Pete down for a kiss, holding the folded napkin tightly as though it were a piece of his heart, as well.

 

 

VI.

 

 

“What is that?”

The chilled morning in the valley had evolved into a calm afternoon. The harsh winds had died down enough to allow Dallon to clean off the grill in the backyard and cook up some hotdogs and hamburgers for his kids, leaving Brendon to entertain the two children and get to know them. They were cute kids, too. Nice and kind with eyes just like their father’s. Brendon just didn’t know what to say.

However, Brendon hadn’t been thinking around the children and had rolled his sleeves up when he had been helping Dallon prepare the ground meat. Now, his left forearm was exposed which was home to a rather ugly scar from a gash.

The gash had happened right after the break-up with Ryan. Brendon had been on a nonstop drinking binge that not either Patrick or Greta could stop him from. Eventually, he called Ryan and begged for him back, but Ryan didn’t answer. Feeling lost and angry and ashamed with himself, Brendon had broken a bottle onto his arm to make him feel better (because he wanted to convince himself that he had control over who hurt him and not Ryan). Eventually, Greta calmed him down and treated his wounds rather than risk going to the hospital and having Brendon committed into a psychiatric ward for a mandatory seventy-two hours. She lulled him to sleep and stayed up with him to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit and die. 

Brendon shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked into the innocent, inquisitive eyes of Amelie and Knox. “They’re, uh, battle scars.”

“Cool!” Amelie exclaimed immediately. “Can I have some?”

“How’d you get them?” Knox gasped, impressed. “Do you fight bad guys.”

“S-sometimes,” Brendon stuttered, failing to reveal that the bad guy was himself. “B-but you don’t want battle scars like these, kids, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Brendon answered, “it hurts. A lot.”

“Are you okay?” Amelie asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. B-but if you two ever see anyone with a battle scar, you know not to make fun of them. B-because it’s really hard to fight the bad guy sometimes, okay?”

“Okay, Brendon!” Knox said, “Have you ever fought the Joker?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll make it better!” Amelie said and grabbed Brendon’s arm. She twisted it towards her and planted a kiss on the healed gash. “Now you need a band-aid.”

“I’ll get one after lun-” Brendon began, but Amelie and Knox had run off inside to fetch a band-aid for him.

Dallon placed down the spatula and closed the grill. He took a seat beside Brendon on the picnic table and smiled at him as though this were his first time truly seeing him. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re strong, Brendon.” Dallon held his hand and studied the healed up gash. He had noticed it before but out of respect, he had not questioned Brendon about it. Scars were a very personal thing, after all. “You’re the strongest person I know. And to my kids, now, you’re a superhero.”

Brendon chuckled weakly, “I wish.”

“I think you are,” Dallon hummed, “Not all heroes have to wear capes, Brendon.”

He pecked his lips before Amelie and Knox came running out with the band-aid for Brendon. He allowed them to place it on him as Knox began trying to explain to Brendon all about Batman.

He stared at the scar, which poked out from the small band-aid which could not cover the entire thing; and as Brendon stared at it, he realized that everything heals, eventually. His cut healed. His heart was healing. Eventually, things would finish healing. He might not be repaired afterwards. Brendon might always be broken, but he would cope with it. Soon he would be able to function as though he weren’t broken.

Dallon flashed him a secret smile from behind the smoky grill, and Brendon blushed.

It was okay if he was still broken because Dallon kept him functioning.

 

 

VII.

 

 

Brendon.

Brendon Boyd Urie.

Black hair and eyes the size of the moon. Little pools of whiskey surrounding a pupil. Watermelon smiles and looks that materialized into touches that materialized into illicit moans. Kisses that materialized into tears. Something was broken…. Something didn’t make sense….

Ryan’s head swam through the deep caverns and labyrinths of his mind. He wasn’t sure where he was at. Shane Valdez and Spencer and the knife and the pain had all dissolved before him, and he was now sitting in a grassy field beneath an old oak tree. It looked like a Robert Frost poem.

Brendon was there. Brendon was always with Ryan. They sat at the homemade picnic amidst the ragweed and dandelions and tall grasses where bees frolicked playfully and even a hummingbird whizzed by on a search for sweet nectar.

Ryan was smoking, and the smoke rings were engulfing the two of them until they were floating in a miasma of themselves. Brendon smiled and kissed his nicotine-flavored lips and breathed the smoke from his lungs until all Ryan could do was settle peacefully beside his lover.

“Brendon, I love you more than there are stars in the sky.” Ryan looked up at the sky, but it was a forget-me-not blue that puffed its own smoke rings of fluffy clouds that looked nothing like stars.

Vaguely, Ryan remembered a story about the sun dying each night in order to let the moon breathed. He wondered where the stars came into play.

“What are you afraid of? That someone won’t approve of our relationship?!”

“It’s not like that, Brendon. You don’t understand.” Ryan continued to watch the heavens.

“I’ll be with you until the end,” Brendon whispered with a feeling of defeat.

Ryan crushed the cigarette and leaned down to breathe the air from Brendon’s lungs. Their lips dueled lethargically in the afternoon sun, and Ryan forgot all about death and stars and smoke.

“I love you, Brendon,” Ryan murmured, “Always.”  


 

VIII.

 

 

He was trapped. He was constrained, and he couldn’t move. He had to force his eyes open in order to see, but the only thing surrounding him were bright white lights and shadows on the walls. Spencer started to panic; he started to scrabble at his own body and try to fight his way out of whatever constraints that monster had placed him in. He could hear nothing but mechanical beeps and a low, distant chatter of people from what sounded like miles away. Spencer wondered if Shane had finally made contact with the gods of his sacrifice.

“Just breathe,” a voice whispered to him. “Breathe.”

Spencer slammed his eyes shut, afraid to see what Shane had in store for him. Surely, he was no sacrifice like Ryan was, but Shane had seemed extremely let-down that Spencer’s ‘pretty face’ had gone to waste like that. Visions of various kinds of tortures flashed through Spencer’s mind. He wondered if Shane would tie him down on the bed and exploit him. He wondered if he would proceed with the nude photo shoot they had planned; Spencer cringed at the thought of him going further….

“There you go,” the voice repeated soothingly, “breathe.”

Spencer tried to breathe as calm as he could, but he didn’t know where he was. He choked on the oxygen and fell into a fit of coughing that silenced the entire room until it was over.

“Breathe….” 

Spencer plunged headfirst into a cold body of water. It was like diving into the Pacific in the middle of the night. His lungs cleared, and his body loosened up. The chilled icy water crept into Spencer’s system and traveled through his body via his veins. He wondered if the water would stop his heart.

“Breathe….”

Finally, Spencer jumped back into consciousness. He blinked his eyes to accommodate his vision to the bright lights. He was in the hospital, on a hospital bed, and beside him, Jon Walker was holding his hand. Spencer blinked a few times and coughed and spluttered to make sure this wasn’t a dream. He wriggled and found that all the limbs of his body were working.

“Jon, what happened?” Spencer whispered hoarsely.

“I called the cops, Spencer,” he said, “I came by Shane’s to find you, a-and I swear I heard you screaming in the house. So I called the cops to tell them that Valdez kidnapped you. I guess they were already in the process of getting a search warrant for the house and came immediately. When I heard that you were okay, Spencer, fuck….” Jon’s eyes were filled with tears that slowly glistened down his cheeks. “You could have died.”

“I-I’m okay.” Spencer squeezed Jon’s hand. “Where’s Cassie?”

“I broke up with her.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you, idiot.”

Spencer gawked before nodding and saying breathlessly, “I-I love you, too. I-I only even bothered with Shane to make you jealous.”

“Spencer, you stupid asshole,” Jon cried, “I could have lost you that way.” He pulled Spencer’s hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “You’re so stupid.”

Spencer knew that Jon didn’t mean it. He had waited for this moment to happen for ages, and now that it had happened, Spencer didn’t know what to make of it. He loved Jon Walker. Jon had now saved him from death and was now crying in front of Spencer. Jon was always saving Spencer, it seemed (what, with him constantly saving him from drunken regrets). But now Spencer knew that it was never because Jon felt obligated to help a friend out. It was love, pure and simple as that.

Jon loved Spencer, and Spencer loved Jon. 

It had taken a while to get to where they were, but the road to love wasn’t paved like the yellow brick one. And now Spencer knew why; it was much more satisfying to fight for love than to sit back and expect it to find you.

“Where’s Ryan?” Spencer finally croaked when the lovesickness had finally worn off.

Jon’s lip trembled, and he ignored the question, tears still streaming down his face.

“Jon, where’s Ryan?” Spencer asked with a slightly raised voice.

Jon trembled again, but this time he spoke shakily, “Ryan lost so much blood, Spencer. B-by the time the ambulance arrived… well, there was nothing they could do….”

“Where’s Ryan?!”

“Ryan’s dead, Spence,” Jon sobbed, “Ryan’s dead.”

He held on tight to Spencer’s hand and cried beside his bed. Spencer felt the tears falling too, so he simply held on tight to Jon as though their love would dissipate the pain.  
Unfortunately, love didn’t work that way. Love didn’t heal wounds. Love was simply there to support you when you received those wounds.

Spencer cried and hoped that Ryan had died thinking of something beautiful. He hoped that he hadn’t been thinking of Shane Valdez or the lie Spencer had told him about Brendon coming to save him.

Better yet, Spencer hoped that Ryan had died while his faith was still in Brendon. He hoped he had died still believing in their love.

 

 

IX.

 

 

Meanwhile, in a separate ward of the hospital, away from Spencer Smith, Vic paced outside in the hallway. His shoes slapped against the linoleum, and every so often he had to dart to the side in order to let a hurrying nurse or doctor through. Kellin sat quietly in a chair outside the door they were in front of. He was staring at his feet and looked uncomfortable sitting there. 

The two of them had been released earlier in the morning after both of them were dehydrated and well-nourished again. Jaime had business with the police in order to find out where Obbo’s gang had taken his car and his gun to. Vic wished he could help Jaime with his search; instead, he had to-- he swallowed.

“It’s okay,” Kellin whispered to Vic, “She’s your mother. She’ll love you no matter what.”

Vic nodded and inhaled deeply. Finally, he took a step inside the room and motioned for Kellin to follow him. He wanted to introduce Kellin to his mother. He knew that she had never met him and that she didn’t know what Vic had been going through with his self-harm, but he wanted to show her that he had finally found happiness and recovery.

“You can do this,” Kellin muttered and grabbed Vic’s hand to show him that he would be standing beside him, no matter what.

Vic’s mother was laying in the bed. The machines around her were all off, and the room seemed dark with the evening falling around Cooperstown. Orange light from streetlamps outside flooded into the room, but they did nothing to improve the gloomy mood that had settled itself with the disappearance of the sun.

“Mom,” Vic muttered, “I want you to meet Kellin Quinn. I love him, Mom, and I want you to know that he makes me happy.”

The air was filled with a swollen, pregnant pause of all the things Vic wished his mother would say.

“I’ll take care of him, Mrs. Fuentes,” Kellin added quietly, out of respect for Vic, “I’ll keep him safe. I love your son, and I’ll never let anything hurt him.”

Vic collapsed against Kellin and cried into the crook of his neck. Kellin held on tight to his boyfriend and kissed his hair and rubbed his back and shushed his hysteric sobs.

“It’ll be okay, Vic. Don’t cry, baby.”

“W-why did she have to die?!” Vic wailed like a little boy.

“There was no good reason for it, Vic. There are no good reasons why things like this happen to good people.”

“Why couldn’t God have taken me instead?!”

Kellin held onto Vic tighter. “Don’t talk like that, Vic. You are worth so much more than you see in yourself. And I’m going to help show you that. I’m going to show you that you’re worth my everything.”

Vic trembled and choked, trying to sniff away the tears. The two of them had just went through so much trauma together, and Vic knew that Kellin wasn’t going to be leaving his side anytime soon. Immediately, he grabbed for his hand.

“I love you,” Kelin mouthed to Vic, making the other boy smile bashfully. That was all he could really ask for: a light in the dark. A laugh in sorrow.

Mike entered the room only moments later. His expression was equally somber, and he stared at his mother longingly as though she would wake up and kiss his cheek and tell him that they were all going to live happily ever after now.

“Hey,” Vic echoed hollowly to his brother, who embraced him as well.

Mike could find nothing else to say. “Hey.”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“We will be,” Mike assured his brother.

“How?”

“Well….” Mike squirmed in his brother’s grip before breaking away and pulling something from his pocket. It was a poster with Obbo’s face on it-- it was a reward poster with Obbo’s face on it! “Apparently, the cops have been looking for him for sometime. I guess he’s been a big problem for them. We’re receiving reward money for turning him in, Vic. We’re going to be okay.”

Vic smiled softly. He knew that money wasn’t going to solve all their problems, but he also knew that no longer fearing ending up on the street because they couldn’t pay the bills or having Mike working triple shifts was going to make the grieving process simpler.

Eventually, night officially fell around the hospital in Monroeville. The three of them fell asleep in the chairs around the bed. Vic was having a hard time falling asleep. He kept seeing Obbo and his mother’s corpse behind closed eyelids. 

Kellin noticed he couldn’t sleep and whispered, “C’mere.”

Vic clambered into Kellin’s lap and allowed the other boy to hold him and kiss him and rock him to sleep. It was nice to be cared for, and it was even better to be loved.

 

 

X.

 

 

The dingy Monroeville apartment seemed empty and lonely, even though its occupant had always lived in solitude. Gerard moped around his house all day, tirelessly flicking through channels on the grainy television set, chain smoking until he was sick, and attempting to draw (but throwing out every single drawing he had attempted). He finally called it a day and fell into bed, staring at the ceiling with some sort of apprehension.

Ray had called him earlier to explain to him how they had apprehended Shane Valdez and saved one of the two victims stowed away in his manor. He also explained how the squad had managed to arrest a notorious drug lord that had given them many problems the past few years. It should’ve been a good day for Gerard, but he couldn’t help feeling that something was missing.

After a few hours of staring at the ceiling, Gerard gave up on his attempts to fall asleep and brewed himself a pot of coffee, padding around tirelessly in the apartment. 

He couldn’t draw. The only thing his hand would even scribble into a comprehensible image was of a familiar face that was driving Gerard insane. And every time he closed his eyes he was met with inky hair and a childish giggle and magnificent hazel eyes and the feeling of lips ghosting against his….

Gerard jolted out of the daydream and tried to put those thoughts away.

He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t.

He wouldn’t risk allowing himself to be heartbroken, after Bert. Gerard was done with falling in love; it had only ever been a cliché. To him, it was nothing more than that scene from Sixteen Candles where Molly Ringwald’s dad explained that if a crush were easy, then it wouldn’t be called a crush, would it?

That aptly summed up Gerard’s love life.

He refused to be crushed by this growing affection for Frank. And now that the case was over, Gerard would be free to immerse himself in work. He would continue to heal and fight addictions. Maybe, he would finally complete a drawing he was proud of. Gerard would never have to see Frank Iero again.

On a whim, Gerard seized the phone and began to dial Frank’s number. It was as if auto-pilot was guiding him to do so; he could tell Frank the outcome of the case they couldn’t finish together. He could hear his gravelly voice and his childish giggle. Gerard wanted to envision Frank’s lips curling around the receiver as they talked, but Gerard was also afraid that Frank would refuse to answer his call.

So he turned his cell phone off and waited for his coffee to finish.

 

 

XI.

 

 

At midnight, Brendon and Dallon finally crawled into bed together. Dallon had spent a majority of the evening meeting with Breezy’s parents and discussing funeral arrangements and assuring their concerned selves that Dallon would take care of his children just fine on his own.

Brendon babysat Amelie and Knox, only so they wouldn’t have to be faced with the weight of their mother’s death. He knew they would be dealing with it at the funeral when they saw her in the casket and wondered why mommy wouldn’t wake up. They played board games and watched cartoons and Brendon probably let them eat more sugary treats than they were supposed to, but eventually the kids calmed down enough for Dallon to tuck them in and read them a story.

They were finally alone. 

Brendon cuddled up to Dallon in the bed, trailing his finger’s down Dallon’s bare chest and tracing lazy circles into his skin. “I want you,” he murmured huskily.

“Yeah?” Dallon grinned.

“Yeah,” Brendon whispered and placed suckling kisses across Dallon’s chest and down his abdomen.

Dallon sighed softly and threaded his fingers in Brendon’s hair as the two of them relished their first real moment of intimacy since they had arrived in Salt Lake City. They knew Brendon would have to go back to finish school, but for now, the both of them wanted to enjoy the picket fence.

Unfortunately, just as Brendon was inching Dallon’s boxers down from his hips, the phone rang. Normally, Brendon would have let it ring, but in the quiet house, he was afraid the bold noise would wake up the children. He rushed to answer it.

“Hello?” He hoped he didn’t sound as horny as he was.

“Brendon, it’s Spencer.”

“Spence, it’s really late. And I’m so fucking tired.” Brendon faked a yawn.

“Look, Brendon, I’m really sorry you have to hear this over the phone like this, b-but Ryan’s dead.”


	18. Every Little Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all my readers and everyone who gave feedback and stayed with me on this entire journey in cooperstown.

#### December

#### Saturday

 

 

I.

 

 

The airport was chilly. Chicago winds beat heavily against the windows where a flurry of snow attacked the glass, coagulating against the thin layer of frost and piling up into a faux sheet of glass. Plumes of smoke cascaded from landing planes, outside, as the hot air from the engines collided with the icy temperatures of the lake-effect city. Sitting, bundled up with a warm cup of coffee in his hands, Gabe’s teeth chattered from the climate, and he risked raising his head from the warmth of his scarf to glance around the airport.

 

He should’ve been used to the weather, by now. After all, Gabe had been in Chicago for nearly two weeks now. After dropping out of college shortly before Thanksgiving break, Gabe had flown out to see his father in Chicago and reconcile with the man who had turned Gabe into an alcoholic.

As predicted, his old man had yelled himself hoarse at the money Gabe had wasted and how Gabe only had to finish another semester and a half before graduating college. But Gabe had explained that he didn’t want a shitty degree or to take over the even shittier company. Yet, when his father asked what he wanted to do, Gabe couldn’t answer him properly. Thankfully, his father must’ve had some Christmas spirit in him because he told Gabe he could stay in Chicago with him through the new year- at least until he got back onto his feet.

Gabe spent most of his time exploring the Chicago nightlife. He went to abundances of clubs and concerts in hopes of finding something that would spark his interest. He never drank, and he never wandered out of the bar only to wake up in some nameless woman’s bed. Instead, he made acquaintances with the local bands that played and was already fast friends with a boy named Nate Novarro who played drums in a bad and occasionally offered Gabe a spot in the band, should he ever want to play (he even offered Gabe the number of a great teacher should he want to play an instrument).

He had declined politely, of course, but Nate’s ambition always seemed to nag the back of his mind when he was watching other bands on stage in the local bars. Gabe had begun to imagine what life could be like in a band. It would be the complete opposite of life in business, like his father, of course. There would be no rigidly scheduled board meetings or stuffy business suits or closed-in cubicles that seemed to suck life out of their inhabitants. There would be freedom, and Gabe liked the idea of that.

Pulling out his phone, he thought of calling Nate to tell him they could try out this ‘band’ thing. Maybe, they would even make it. Maybe, Gabe would earn his own money and fame and notoriety, instead of brandishing his father’s hand-me-downs. 

Then, he thought of the effect it would have on his relationship. William was still away in Cooperstown, completing his degree in literature and hoping to aspire to a great writer or poet or something of the sort. Gabe thought of the way fame and money could affect their life together. William wouldn’t have to get a menial job to support himself while he wrote something to be published. He could pour all his passion in time into a great work of art. And maybe (even though Gabe knew anything William wrote could sell well of its own merits), his father could even pull some strings to have publishers look at whatever William penned out for the public.

He didn’t like to particularly show his work to others, William didn’t. It had only been last week over an instant messaging chat that William had dared to show Gabe a poem he had written about him.

_We were part of something ours and ours alone,_

_Anywhere was home._

An announcement for a plane arrival sounded over the loudspeaker, tearing Gabe from his thoughts of his boyfriend and impending fame just waiting around the corner. He wished that William could be with him now, but Gabe refused to let William leave his classes just to come to Chicago and waste time with him. Not to mention, William’s roommate had died, and Gabe couldn’t uproot his life anymore than death already had. They had gone to the funeral together and paid their respects; Gabe held William’s hand when he started to tear up at the sight of his best friend and even listened to the stories William told of the two of them through thick tears. 

Not wanting to leave William all alone, Gabe had insisted that he move into his condo on Evertree Crescent with Pete. Begrudgingly, William had agreed and even took up a job cleaning hotel rooms in order to pay his half of the rent. Though, Gabe liked to send him some money he, himself, was making at a local record shop.

“There you are!” a pair of scrawny arms wrapped themselves around Gabe’s neck in a near headlock, knocking his coffee to the floor as a body threw itself at him.

But Gabe didn’t need to see his face to know it was him. He instantly recognized that smell of home. That smell of rosy ink and generic soap. William nuzzled his wind-beaten face into Gabe’s neck and smiled against the rough column of skin (nicked and abused a bit by his razor). He had wanted to look nice for William’s arrival to spend the winter holidays with him in Chicago. It was the first time they had seen each other without the assistance of the internet, and Gabe thought the moment felt too ethereal.

William felt the same in his arms as he had back in Cooperstown. Gabe even pressed their frigid lips together in order to make sure that William tasted the same. 

Pulling back, William smiled. “Missed me?”

“You have no idea, querido,” Gabe replied back, breathlessly.

William chuckled, “I missed you, too. It’s just not the same living with Pete. He doesn’t listen to shitty music, doesn’t make a mess of the kitchen, and certainly doesn’t wear the same damned hoodie for weeks on end.”

“You love my purple hoodie,” Gabe teased, tugging at it on William’s body.

He had given it to William before his departure, and he was rather sure that William probably slept in it for weeks on end, too.

William shrugged. “It smells like you.”

Gabe grinned and pulled William to him again, pressing their lips together and feeling a familiar warmth flood his body from the nape of his neck to the tip of his toes. William placed his hands on Gabe’s shoulders to steady himself and smiled against his too-long absent lover’s lips.

“I’m thinking of settling down, soon,” said William.

Gabe laughed, “You sound like an old man, Guillermo.”

“I’m serious!” William insisted. “I want to spend my life with someone I love.”

“Oh?” Gabe’s signature smirk appeared on his face. “It wouldn’t happen to be that narcissistic playboy I heard you got yourself involved in? Nice body, but that’s arrogance if I’ve ever seen it.”

William giggled and played along, “Oh yes. He’s quite the arrogant fool, and he does spend a rather extended amount of time staring at himself in the mirror….”

“So why spend your life with him?”

“Well, he’s got a great ass…..”

Gabe pinched William.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You forgot to mention my dick.”

William rolled his eyes and kissed Gabe hard. “How about you take me somewhere warm, and then we’ll talk about your dick?”

Chuckling, Gabe collected William’s luggage and wrapped a free arm around his waist to steer him from the airport. “You might have to wait with that settling down thing, William.”

“Why?”

“Because I might join a band,” he said, “Since I’m missing out on that whole college experience thing, now.”

William shook his head in disbelief but laid his head on Gabe’s shoulder, nonetheless, as the icy air hit their faces. Nothing else really needed to be said. Because sometimes all two people really needed to do was be.

 

 

II.

 

 

Miles away and much more southern than Chicago, Christmas had begun to evolve around the small suburban neighborhood. It was still early December, but the Saturday had given the humble citizens a chance to cut down their trees and put up lights before the snowstorms would begin to roll in from the north. 

“I love Christmas,” Jack said, chipper. “There’s always raw cookie dough to eat and presents to wrap and somebody always gets a puppy.”

Alex snorted. “I’ve never seen someone get a puppy for Christmas.”

“You must not have watched enough Disney as a kid, then, Peter Pan,” Jack teased and stuck out his tongue.

The two of them were tucked in one of the small houses on the suburban street. They had moved to Baltimore, Maryland, shortly after Jack’s recovery (and as soon as their credits from Cooperstown University would transfer over here). They were spending the holiday season with Jack’s sister, May, and she had agreed to house them until they both got on their feet. She was aghast at the news of the attack on Jack (she had never been informed) and she was even more disgusted with the news of what their parents had almost done in pulling the plug on their soon. Needless to say, Jack was finding it hard to forgive them.

But the Christmas holidays weren’t the time for brooding and holding grudges. Jack had sent them a Christmas card, regardless, and even requested that May take a tacky photo of he and Alex in tackier sweaters to send to them.

It had been hard adjusting to life in Maryland, far away from friends and family. Rian and Cassadee insisted that the two of them better come out to California in the summer for their wedding, and Alex’s mother called once a week to make sure that Alex was okay; she even spent extended amounts of time talking to Jack on the phone.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because,” Jack said, “it suits you. You always begged for me to run away with you.”

Alex raised a brow. “Does that make you Wendy?”

Jack fluttered his lashes and adopted a high falsetto. “Only if you tell me what a pretty princess I am!”

Alex laughed and nearly spilled the hot cocoa he was holding down his sweater and onto the couch. He steadied himself and laid his head on Jack’s shoulder as they sat on the couch, staring at the falling snow outside and watching the mindless routines of the neighborhood as trees were hoisted from the roofs of cars and ladders propped against houses for disgruntled husbands to climb up and hang lights to appease their wives.

Once upon a time, Alex used to yearn for that. He used to want the white picket fence in a secluded neighborhood, far away from prying eyes of people who might judge his love. But Alex wasn’t conventional. He didn’t want that anymore; he simply wanted Jack. It didn’t even matter that their love had taken them across the entire country, from the Pacific to the Atlantic. It only showed that love could span distances.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Jack,” Alex finally whispered when the room had swollen with silence.

“Me too, Lex.” Jack kissed his temple. “I’m not leaving you. You wouldn’t be able to live without me. You’d never be able to find your hairspray or your girl pants or your dick.”

Alex snickered, “I think I can find that last one pretty well on my own. Thanks.”

“Then why am I always the one who ends up with it?” Jack muttered naughtily in Alex’s ear causing his cheeks to blush peony pink.

“Jack, you’re always horny.”

“Well, yeah,” Jack explained as though it were that simple, “I lost so much time in my coma, a-and we lost even more time just avoiding feelings that were always there in the first place. I want to live everyday to its fullest… with you, Lex.”

Alex smiled. “Life isn’t all about sex. It’s about fucking and dying, remember?”

Jack scoffed, “Nah. Life isn’t about any of that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s about living,” Jack explained.

Alex had never heard something summed up more eloquently in his life, and he leaned in to peck Jack’s cocoa-flavored lips, tasting the richness that had become December in Baltimore.

For Jack, Alex’s voice had been the light at the end of the tunnel for so long that it was almost impossible not to think of him as his soul mate. And Alex had been fighting that revelation for so long that it was useless to deny it any longer.

“I love you,” Alex murmured, “and I always will.”

“You better because someone will need to feed the dog when we get married.”  


 

III.

 

 

Kellin left work that morning after his graveyard shift had ended and meandered down Thames Street in the sunny California weather. The Pacific winters still garnered occasional wind currents and harsh waves, but the sun’s rays still shone upon the pavement and beat against Kellin’s sweaty and worn back from his long shift. He stopped for an energy drink to keep him rejuvenated for a few hours while he cooked himself breakfast and showered back home. Then, he crossed the street from The Green Gentleman and entered the apartment.

It had been nearly two months since his imprisonment in Obbo’s basement. And after a few days in the hospital, Kellin had been released only to feel even more lost than he had in the darkness of that basement without Vic. He had nowhere to go. He couldn’t return to his abusive father and allow himself to fall victim to that pain anymore. If Vic could quit his self-harm addiction for Kellin, then surely Kellin could quit lying to himself that his life at home would get any better. After all, his father hadn’t even visited him once in the hospital or even reported him missing, to begin with. But Kellin didn’t know where else to go. He couldn’t impede on the Fuentes’ hospitality, what with the death of their mother lingering so fresh.

He had planned to call an old friend to maybe help him out for a few weeks until Vic had insisted that he didn’t want to be separated from Kellin one more time.

So Kellin dropped out of school and took up a part-time job, while Mike Fuentes quit his second one. Sure, they had reward money from Obbo’s arrest, but Mike wanted to save that for Vic’s schooling because that was top priority. So the two of them worked in order to put food on the table and afford a place of their own, eventually.

For the time being, the three of them had adopted Jaime Preciado’s apartment on Thames Street as their own. He had insisted when word had come out that he was leaving to study abroad for an entire semester in London. This gave the three of them four months to save up for a place of their own. To Kellin, things couldn’t be better, though.

He walked in the door only to find Vic curled up on the couch, watching horrible cartoons and struggling not to spill his cereal milk all down his body.

Kellin smiled. “Hey.”

Vic looked over and smiled at him. “I was wondering when you’d get home.”

“You have class today?”

“Nope.”

“Where’s Mike?”

“Visiting a lady friend,” Vic said with a wink.

Kellin collapsed onto the couch as Vic placed the nearly empty breakfast bowl on the coffee table in front of him. Flopping back against his boyfriend, Kellin let out a groan of exhaustion. He had never worked this hard in his entire life. From a young age, Kellin had always been spoiled and well-kept, but now he had entered the real world. And the real world was working to your bones and joints screaming from exhaustion and never having enough sleep to keep you going.

But, Kellin also mused, life was also coming home to someone you love everyday. It was feeling loved and giving love in return, it was holding on and never letting go, making promises that would never be broken, throwing away old razorblades, and even kissing scars that would never go away.

Vic ran his hands through Kellin’s sweaty hair and kissed his head. “You work too hard.”

“I do it for us.”

“You don’t have to,” Vic muttered timidly.

“But I do.” Kellin buried himself in Vic’s warmth, forgetting that he was sweaty and dirty and Vic had probably just showered. “I want you to live like a king one day, Vic. No more struggling. You don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” whispered Vic. Because it was true. He knew he didn’t deserve the disparities life had given him. If he had, then life would never have given him Kellin Quinn, as well. Kellin was the silver lining in the storm cloud that had hung over his life for so long.

Perhaps, it was because he had originally been hope and promise. He had been the reason to stop cutting and the reason to throw out the blade and the reason to no longer be ashamed of scars. He became the reason Vic wore short-sleeved shirts again and the motivation to visit his mother’s grave every Sunday and place flowers on the stone. Kellin had become a reason to live and a motivation to continue on.

“But you don’t deserve anything you survived, either,” Vic said sternly. “Those scars… you’re still beautiful, Kellin.”

And even though Kellin had sweat running down his temples and body odor clinging to his shirt and his joints felt stiff and stuck to his clothes, he truly did feel beautiful. He desperately hoped that this was how Vic felt every time Kellin said the same thing to him.

Vic kissed Kellin’s forehead. “Go, get a shower. I’ll give you a back massage when you come out.”

“And help me fall asleep?”

Vic nodded and watched Kellin head for the bathroom.

He cleaned up his breakfast and leaned against the counter, thinking about life. Sure, it was sad and terrible and hopeless at times, but there were also times that made the entire thing worth living through. All the suffering was worth it, Vic thought every time he crawled into bed next to Kellin and allowed himself to be held.

Sometimes, nightmares startled the both of them awake, but they persevered because without the bad in life, the good wouldn’t taste so sweet. And without the pain in life, love wouldn’t feel the way it did when Vic and Kellin were pressed against each other.

 

 

IV.

 

 

The chilly December drifts climbed down from the Rocky Mountains and settled across the valley that Brendon had come to know as Salt Lake City. He had, of course, gone back to Cooperstown upon the news of Ryan’s death. He had taken an early train home the morning after, without waking Dallon or his kids. But Brendon couldn’t escape from the other man because all Dallon did was call his phone like crazy and even threaten to report him a missing person if Brendon didn’t at least text him back and say he was okay.

Finally, though, Brendon did call Dallon (through spouts of tears), and Dallon took the next train to Cooperstown, asking his parents to baby sit his children.

They attended Ryan’s funeral together. It was a nice funeral, too. Brendon thought Ryan probably would’ve laughed at the heartfelt eulogies that his friends sputtered out between sobs and hiccups. William Beckett tried to read a poem about Ryan aloud to the listeners, but he was overcome by tears and was forced to sit down to regain his countenance. Dallon didn’t say anything or act like he knew Ryan or was even friends with Ryan. He simply held Brendon’s hand as though this was the end.

But it had been nearly two months since Ryan’s passing, and a day didn’t go by when Brendon didn’t think of him. However, the thoughts about him certainly did evolve with time. At first, all Brendon was filled with was regret at the things they had said to each other and the days they had lost and even the days that would never come. But soon, Brendon began to feel content after Spencer told Brendon that Ryan never had any ill-feelings towards him. Soon, Brendon felt as though he could regard Ryan as his guardian angel that would be looking after him.

Then, there were other nights when Brendon thought too long and too hard about Ryan’s death. He would be overcome with nightmares of a bloody corpse and words that should never have been said between them and a high, wicked laughter tearing the two of them apart.

Most nights, Brendon woke up alone. Dallon had to remain in Salt Lake City for his children, and Brendon had to stay in Cooperstown to finish his schooling. 

But anytime Brendon called Dallon about a nightmare, his boyfriend always seemed to answer and would sing little lullabies to Brendon over the phone until he fell asleep, and his breaths would sound hundreds of miles away to lull Dallon asleep on the other end of the line.

Back in Salt Lake City for the winter holidays, Brendon felt an air of homeliness in the quaint town. Snow was making its way from the capped Rockies that towered over the city, and Brendon even had to pull his coat tighter around his body as he waited at the train station for a familiar face.

“How much are you chargin’, doll?” a voice drawled behind him, making him jump. “A pretty little face like that?”

Brendon turned around and laughed as Dallon stood behind him, having snuck up on him. Immediately, he peeled the heavy coat from his body and threw it around Brendon’s shivering shoulders.

“I leave you in Utah for two months and you turn all… mountain man on me?” Brendon chuckled.

“It’s either mountain man or Mormon down here, Bren,” Dallon said as he returned to his regular voice.

Glad to hear the familiar flight of Dallon’s voice, Brendon threw his arms around him and buried his icy face in Dallon’s warm scarf-adorned neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m only a train ride away,” Dallon reminded Brendon.

“I know,” he sighed and pulled away, “but long-distance is so hard. Falling asleep alone hurts.”

“I won’t leave you, Brendon,” Dallon voiced the other’s fears, “I won’t die.”

Brendon blinked away tears that hadn’t surfaced for a while. It was hard to cry alone and hear your misery echo back to you like a cold taunt. It was always easier to cry with warm arms around you and someone to tell you there’s nothing to cry about- that you’re okay. “I miss him, Dallon.”

“I know, Brendon.” Dallon engulfed him again, shielding Brendon from the piercing wind. “It gets easier as time goes by, I promise. For what it’s worth, he loved you until the end.”

Brendon smiled into Dallon’s shoulder, trying to see the silver lining in the snow-filled clouds overhead. But all he could see were blue skies filled with the same sad eyes.

 

 

V.

 

 

His coffee was cold.

Mind you, his coffee usually was cold by the time he got to it, but for some reason, it really bothered him today. It irked him that he was sipping cold, stale coffee from the same chipped mug he always drank from. He longed for the smell of a coffee shop and the warmth of the shop and the ambient noises of espresso machines and typing laptops. 

Gerard Way hadn’t left his Monroeville apartment for some time. He was nearly out of food, though, and would have to leave the comfort of his hermit cave soon. For a month, Gerard had done nothing but hide in his apartment, listening to the gunshots from the surrounding neighborhood and the police sirens, as he drew. It had been an old hobby to pass the time, but now Gerard couldn’t put the pen or pencil down long enough to even get his coffee while it was still warm.

He had quit his job as a detective after the Cooperstown case and had secluded himself into the only thing that held any sort of stability or security left.

Then, he had called his brother up in New York and asked if he could stay out with him while he attempted to attend in arts school in the city. His brother had agreed.

All in all, Gerard had moved on from his life as a detective. He didn’t yearn for alcohol or drugs or even Bert. 

He was definitely better off alone, he assured himself every time his mind wandered. But still, he couldn’t help drawing the same face over and over again.

 

 

VI.

 

 

Spencer made his way from the house on First Street over to Thames Street where The Green Gentleman stood predominantly over its entire block of street. The holidays had already made Cooperstown a much cheerier place after the murders, and it was helping everyone cope with loss. Although, this didn’t necessarily apply to Spencer, it was still nice to know that others weren’t suffering the same way he was.

Part of Spencer still hated himself for being attracted to Shane- for kissing him! He hated that his lips had touched someone who had murdered others. He hated that Spencer had, at one point, felt compassion for a monster. He hated that he had stood by helplessly as that monster murdered Ryan.

Jon never held any of this against him, though. Jon didn’t regret kissing the lips that had touched that monsters. In fact, Jon hardly brought up the fact that Spencer Smith and Shane Valdez had been involved in some sort of campus fling. And in return, Spencer never brought up the full details of Jon’s relationship with Cassie. After all, if you loved someone, you would accept their pasts and their mistakes.

So even if Spencer couldn’t accept what had happened with Shane, Jon could. And by doing so, he was able to connect more strongly with Spencer than he ever had before. Because now he knew how fucked up Spencer was, and he still decided to stay.

Spencer loved Jon because of that. 

He was glad that neither was secretly pining over the other anymore. He was glad to be in an open and honest relationship, rather than the dysfunctional ones he witnessed across town. Jon was the epitome of a perfect boyfriend, too. He cooked for Spencer (and Spencer did eat his burnt food because that was love), he cared for Spencer when he was feeling ill, and he even taught Spencer how to play drums (because he knew all along). 

Cassie, it turns out, wasn’t even that upset that Jon had left her because he had done it honestly. She still offered, if Jon wanted, to get him in a recording studio for a cheap price in order to record an EP. Jon’s only concern was leaving Spencer behind.

Entering The Green Gentleman and leaving his thoughts on the street, Spencer smiled at the homely warmth he felt in the familiar bar. There were lights and artificial trees to celebrate the upcoming holiday, and Jon was serving beer behind the bar with a jingly Santa Claus hat on his head. Spencer chuckled to himself and approached the bar.

“Shot of Jack,” Spencer ordered, placing the money on the counter.

Jon frowned. “You can’t handle your whiskey, Spence.”

“It’s just one shot, Jon. For Christmas,” he begged.

Jon could never deny Spencer anything, so he smiled and poured Spencer a shot of whiskey. “How’ve you been, then?”

“Been thinking,” Spencer said, “about your chance to record an EP. I think you should do it.”

“Spencer, we’ve been over this before--”

“I’ll play drums for you,” he interrupted with a cheeky smile on his face, “We’ll be a duo. And if we sell anything, it sells. If we don’t, we can keep trying. I know you want to do this, Jon. You’ve wanted it for so long; that’s why you dropped out of school. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“I don’t want to distract you from your studies.”

“I promise, I can handle both.”

Jon smiled adoringly at his boyfriend. “I’ll drink to that he said,” he said and poured them each a smaller shot of whiskey before clinking the glasses together for a toast.

Spencer was about to say something cheesy about the holidays when someone played a song on the jukebox. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal in Spencer’s mind until he heard Secondhand Serenade wafting through the bar. He froze.

_Best thing about tonight is that we’re not fighting,_

_And could it be we have been this way before…._

Spencer fingered the shot glass in front of him, staring into the empty container and trying not to look at Jon. All he could think of was Jon and Cassie kissing during this song, and somehow it felt tainted.

_But hold your breath because tonight will be the night that I will fall for you._

_Over again, don’t make me change my mind._

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat as he felt Jon taking the shot glass out of his hand and nudging his chin up so that they could stare into each other’s eyes. Spencer couldn’t breathe. Jon’s eyes were nothing but honesty and warmth and love.

_This is not what I intended._

_I always swore to you I’d never fall apart…._

The song seemed to drift away from Spencer’s ears as Jon finally pressed their lips together. It was a different kiss than the ones they were used to together. It was an apology kiss for tainting their song. It was a good luck kiss for the future that hung on their intertwined fingers. And it was true love’s kiss as the two of them finally solidified something the song had told them all along.

“I fell for you a long time ago,” Jon whispered against Spencer’s lips.

_…you’re impossible to find._

 

 

VII.

 

 

Nothing had changed. Well, not entirely nothing, because that would deny the passage of time. But Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump still found themselves well and in love three months since they had rediscovered each other in the campus coffee shop. They weren’t living together because Brendon still needed Patrick and William needed Pete, but they may as well have been with the amount of time they spent at the other’s place. 

The holidays had rolled in and had blessed them both with their winter break from school and a time to unwind from the stress of exams. Now, the two of them spent lazy days cuddled in Patrick’s bed, holding hands and drinking hot chocolate. It was as thought no time had passed.

But even that was not true because the couple had found themselves far away from who they were in Chicago. Patrick was slowly coming out of his shell with the help of Pete and his therapist, who were both helping him through the incident. Although he would never be completely over it and never be able to forget it, he had the security and comfort from Pete that it would never happen again. And Pete still loved him despite being ‘tainted’. That was enough for Patrick.

Pete had also changed. He no longer stood on rooftops, contemplating leaping off of them. Although his insomnia still kept him awake into the inklings of the morning, he had Patrick to help him through the rougher days. That was enough for Pete.

“My professor really liked that song I made. You know, the ones you gave me lyrics for,” Patrick told Pete one afternoon as they lay cuddled up watching terrible cartoons to pass the time.

Pete smiled. “Good. Because you’re a fucking musical genius.”

“Well….” Patrick blushed. “I’ve been thinking about that, see. I-I’ve been thinking about recording a demo and maybe… releasing it online. T-to see what kind of feedback I garner.”

“Trick!” Pete exclaimed, “That’s great! Th-that’s amazing. That’s a great idea. You should really do it.”

Patrick smiled and played with his fingers. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”

“Why? You have a beautiful voice.”

Patrick’s face was nearly beet red. “You’re supposed to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I’m not supposed to say anything. I’m supposed to be honest with you,” Pete told him.

“I’m not sure if I should, though….”

“Why not?”

Patrick twisted in Pete’s arms to stare his boyfriend in the face. He liked Pete’s eyes. They were warm and comforting and seemed to fold into so many colors that sometimes Patrick became lost counting the shades in them. “What if it changes my life?”

“Then you grasp that chance and you take on the world! You’re talented, Trick, never forget that.”

“W-would you be with me, then?”

Pete smiled and stared back into Patrick’s eyes, counting the shades of blue in them like they were stars. “Until the very end.”

 

 

VIII.

 

 

He was angry- no, he was livid. His body felt like it had been washed in testosterone and adrenaline that was pounding in his ears and rushing through his arteries until his entire body was nothing more than a ball of hormones clenching and unclenching their fists inside him. 

The car was punching almost triple digits on the highway as he accelerated his way towards release from all this pent-up anger. Just earlier, Bob had yelled at him to fix himself as he had been breaking things all day at the pet shop. Eventually, Frank had just stormed out of the shop, and Bob had let him go (maybe because it was the holidays).

Normally, being around the dogs and cats and hamsters and dogs kept Frank calm and collected. He never felt anxious when he was petting one or feeding one or playing around with one, but today must’ve been the exception because Frank couldn’t even begin to think of any of the animals as a stress-reliever. His emotions had finally piqued.

Thankfully for him, though, the highway was not busy as the holidays had everyone inside with their family or out of town to visit loved ones. He was able to make it from Cooperstown to Monroeville quicker than ever. Immediately, as he made his way off the exit ramp, his heart began beating rapidly inside his chest. A wave of nausea and anger and resentment bubbled up, and he didn’t know what else to do besides go over the speed limit and even run a few stop signs en route to his destination.

Finally, though, Frank had parked his car on the street outside an apartment complex. Staring up at the windows, Frank’s fingers twitched for a cigarette, and he sat on the hood of his car smoking up the courage to go up there and confront him.

Frank and Gerard had only both been avoiding each other since they were left off the case. One day, Frank had called the police station to speak to Detective Way, but the person on the other end had informed Frank that Gerard was no longer working for them. In fact, when he inquired for more, the phone recipient seemed to be under the impression that Gerard was moving, hence why he had left the squad.

The entire week after learning that information had made Frank’s head swirl. Sure, they hadn’t been talking; but for some unknown reason, Frank didn’t think he could bear the knowledge of Gerard not living around here. 

The cigarette quelled Frank’s nerves slightly, but all he could think about was Gerard and the kisses that felt more than just a job and their honest confessions and even soft smiles and stolen glances. He couldn’t help but feel there was something more there than mere partnership.

Not knowing when Gerard was even planning to leave Monroeville, Frank quickly stamped out his cigarette onto the sidewalk and walked the steps to Gerard’s floor, his heart hammering louder than his feet on the climb.

Because this was it. This was Frank’s final chance to prove to himself that he had met somebody who might love him uncensored the way Jamia had instructed him. He had found someone broken who he had fixed. But now Frank was broken.

He knocked on the door.

It took five painfully long seconds before the door was answered. Frank nearly forgot to breathe when he saw Gerard standing in front of him.

He looked a mess, but he was still so beautiful. His hair was tousled in several directions, five o’clock shadow was prominent on his face, bags were under his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was raspy as though cigarettes had completely torn it apart. “What are you doing here?”

Frank tried to think of an eloquent answer, but nothing came to mind except the way Gerard’s lips felt against his, so he leaned forward and crashed their lips together. It was desperate and messy, their noses knocked, Frank bit Gerard’s lip and drew blood, and their was definitely way too much saliva produced between the two of them. But when Frank finally pulled away, heart hammering even faster that he might as well have a heart attack, he felt a little better.

“Frank, I--”

“Shut up,” Frank instructed firmly. “I like you, Gerard. I like you a far more than I should, okay? And I don’t want to miss out on something because one of us is scared. Sometimes in life, you just have to take a leap without looking.”

Gerard was silent. He still looked dazed from the kiss. “W-what’re you doing here?”

“I heard you were leaving.”

“So?”

“I came here to try and change your mind.”

“You’re reckless, Frank,” Gerard said with an uneasy chuckle.

“And I’m also head over heels.”

Gerard stared into Frank’s hazel eyes one last time before he leaned forward and pressed his lips against his. They both tasted of coffee and cigarettes and a little bit of pining and desperation.

“I’ve got so many problems, Frank.”

“Good. I do, too.”

 


End file.
